You're not dead
by amurderousravinglunatic
Summary: Some time after Reichenbach, Sherlock returns and finds the emotionally bruised John Watson. But after one curiosity leads to another, will their bond be broken or become stronger than ever? Johnlock.
1. Bloody Technology

**AN: Hey guys, this is my first fanfiction and I'm very appreciative of criticism and advice. I'll try not to do many of these author's notes things too. I've already started on the second chapter, but will post if I get a good response. So, I hope you enjoy it. And please, please, review! Thank-you.**

**Bloody Technology**

I had just come back from Scotland Yard, gone up to my room in the attic and threw my coat on the bed. I sat down at the foot of it, and thoughts pounded. Sherlock wasn't around anymore, but Lestrade still had me consulting with him. Out of fear I may do something harmful to myself, if I weren't kept busy I presume. He cared for Sherlock and he cares for me too, so his concern is natural. Even though he gets it in the neck for such an extension of care on my part and Sherlock's. It hurt to say that. It hurts to speak of him. Sometimes, I forget. I'd say something as if he were still around, as if, like his elder brother, he had me under survelliance and could still hear me. But he was Sherlock, and even if he wasn't here, I could atleast pretend he was. I wish he was, with all my heart.

I like Lestrade and our consultations were always intriguing. Honestly I was just happy to keep myself busy, to remember the feeling I would get when running through the backstreets of London with the greatest man I'd ever known, my bestfriend, Sherlock. It wasn't quite the same anymore, obviously. I didn't get the same enjoyment out of a murder as Sherlock had, a corpse was just a puzzle to him, a game. To me, It was still a person. I had never understood how Sherlock could get such a buzz from death. I still don't understand it. An important part of being a Doctor is compassion. Now I know that might sound silly, I was afterall, in the Army. But when you are out there, in the sweltering heat, with people dying around you everyday, your outlook on the world changes. I was no longer a lost man, searching endlessly for his calling in the world. I was Dr John Watson, I had a role, I would save lives. With every death and every life saved, I felt emotion and I held on to that human part of me, I gripped it so tightly and refused to ever let it go. There were Doctors, not just military doctors, all different kinds who after so many years of hurt and hope, glory and shame, decided to give it all up, to just stop caring. I guess in many ways, it'd be easier. But I couldn't do that, I cherished my compassionate nature. In many circumstances, I've found myself wondering how I could have lived with the borderline-sociopathic Sherlock Holmes. It was odd, but a good odd. The best odd. Truthfully, though he would never had admitted it, he did care. Not for everyone, that would be taking it too far in his view, but for the select few whom came to mean a great deal to him. Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Molly and though he'd rather kill himself with his Revolver than say it out loud, Mycroft. It wasn't the Revolver that killed him in the end though and of all the deaths I've ever witnessed, this was what really damaged me.

I rubbed my temples and stretched. I was so tired. All I had done lately was take continual visits to consult with Lestrade. I didn't go on dates, I didn't sleep, I didn't eat much, I didn't see much enjoyment in the world as I used to. Though I fooled everyone into believing I was the same loyal dog, Dr John Watson. Mrs Hudson of course still hovered around the flat, mothering me, as she had Sherlock. I was always organised when Sherlock was here. I always got the shopping, cooked the meals, everything. Well, everything other than the cleaning. Mrs Hudson tried so hard to convince us she wasn't our housekeeper. She may aswell be afterall. I chuckled to myself. I always found myself happiest when recollecting the old times, even though I had a bitter sting in my heart whilst thinking about him, it was bearable. I had to be strong for him at least. He took his own life in order to spare ours. That brilliant, intellectual, dick of a man. I chuckled again. Even up on St Bart's roof with Moriarty he had been clever. He recorded their conversation. He knew I'd find it and spread the word. Sherlock was not a fraud. Moriarty was real. I sat there for what must of been an hour, just smiling, thinking of the memories I treasured above all.

The day we were summoned to Buckingham Palace, I arrived in Helicopter to find a naked Sherlock wrapped in a bedsheet sat on a piece of lavish, expensive furniture. Even in the Queen's home Sherlock refused to abide by such small rules as decent clothing.

"I really did look good in that sheet." A low, melodic voice filled my ears. A real voice. Not a memory.

I looked slowly up towards the doorframe of my room, praying to God that my subconscious wasn't playing cruel tricks on me and there he stood. The tall man with the cheekbones you could cut your hand on. The man with the dark curls that sat messily upon his head. The man who would turn the collar up on his jacket. The man who had left me. The man who was supposed to be dead.

"Honestly John, how do you expect to progress if you sit in your room moping around?"

I couldn't find the right words to say, I just spluttered the odd vowel or beginning of a word.

Sherlock Holmes stood staring at me, a smile planted upon that thin, handsome face.

"You're supposed to be.. I mean you can't be... You're not dead."

"Thankyou John, we now have a firm grasp of the obvious."

I just stared. My world had gone back into sync. The dark I had thought consumed me, released me and light filled my mind. I'm sure you're thinking this reunion was exactly what I wanted. I did too. But I felt angry, really angry. I stood up, clenching my fists and unclenching them in aggression. He went to speak again and I swung my right arm. Hitting him squarely in the cheek.

"That's better." I said, instantly relieved.

He looked up, holding his cheek. The man with the all the answers was stunned and stared at me. And I sat and waited. Waited for my explanation.

For a while there was nothing but silence, both of us perched on what used to be our chairs. Or was now still our chairs. I didn't know what to think or say, which tense to narrate in. The past and present all seemed to be muddled and intertwining in a way I couldn't wish to understand. Instead I sat there, my hands by my sides, fists clenched. I looked at him, I tried my best to keep my face steady and allow him to speak, with the odd quiver in my lip. I licked my lips and waited for what seemed like a lifetime. He then lifted his face off of his hands and looked directly at me.

He smiled at me, a brilliant smille, one that made the corners of my lips twitch. I had to fight it off, fight off the power he had over me. I deserved an explanation.

"You've not been eating." he stated.

"Digesting merely slows me down." I mocked.

He dismissed my comment, though I could see the inquisitive twinkle behind his bright blue eyes. There was more to be said, but the highly-functioning sociopath didn't know exactly what to say. I could feel my anger rising and falling unexpectedly and I knew I couldn't stay in his presence much longer. I felt sick, grief and happiness was filling me up in an unpleasant mix and I ached to be close to him despite such anger. I stood up abruptly and trunched off down and out the door without a look back at him.

I walked straight out of 221B and hailed a taxi. I clambered in clumsily, my frustration getting the better of me. A balding man of middle age turned in the front seat to face me before we set off, he could see I was shaking and shook his head, "You okay fella?" he said huskily, his voice deep and raspy. I nodded, trying my hardest to keep face and calm down. "Where you off to?" he said, pulling away from the curb and away from Baker Street. I sighed with relief and my muscles begain to relax. "Diogenes club." The taxi driver raised an eyebrow, which I could see in the rear-view mirror. I looked out the window, at all the people going about the average, mediocre lives. From time to time, I imagined myself living a normal life. A life without the nightmares of war in Afghanistan and without the scattered limbs in your flat. Though admittedly, there had been none of that in his absence, or death, or well, you know.

We at last pulled up to the club, where I was almost certain Mycroft would be lurking. Reading one of his papers robotically in the many chairs, ignoring the other middle-class members that surrounded him. I walked through the entrance and straight into the office that myself and Mycroft had consulted in a scattered amount of incidents.

I slowly eased myself into the armchair and waited for him to walk through those heavy-framed doors, shocked to see me there. But instead, he greeted me with a normal welcome, as though he had nought but a care in the world.

"Ah, John. What bring's you here?" he said inquisitvely, the same twinkle in his eye as his brother. He turned away from me for a moment, to pour two glasses of expensive, single-malt whisky. He turned and passed the glass to me. I nodded politely and took a sip before answering him.

"It appears one of Baskerville's experiments was to bring the dead back to life."

He had pressed the glass to his lips but instead, pulled it away. His head arched upwards a little, his face confused. He set the glass down on the table, and leaned on it slightly. Looking at me squarely in the eye.

"Sherlock." he stated. We had interlocked in gaze and he knew I was not about to reply to the name, instead I clenched my fists again. Mycroft's eyes flickered to acknowledge this and then back at my face. His expression was hard to read, like a mixture of curiosity and sincerity. He cleared his throat, trying to conjure up the right words to say to me. Mycroft was an intelligent man, he knew what I wanted to know from my unfaltering stare.

"Indeed, I have known." He looked down at the floor, in shame? Perhaps. He continued, "I had wished to tell you, but my brother, priggishly insisted that it was safer for you to remain ignorant." I made a small noise that invited Mycroft to continue, and so he did. "I had not anticipated that Sherlock would arrive at 221B so swiftly, but alas my brother is full of his suprises." He paused. "What you must understand John, is that, arrogant as he is, my brother was doing this to protect you and in his own time, he will confide in you the circumstances. But I can but agree, that now, it is unsafe for you to know the whole truth." Mycroft smiled a little, and picked up his glass, drinking half of the small amount.

"Does he expect things to fall back the way they used to be?"

"My brother is not a fool John, you know that very well. He will however, attempt to maintain a certain equillibrium. I do not expect you to follow this though, afterall you are a changed man."

I looked up at him in bewilderment. Had Mycroft continued to spy on me without Sherlock?

"Yes John, I have been watching. As always. I have noticed that you do not eat, drink or sleep nearly as well as you did before Sherlock's 'death'" he wagged his fingers mockingly at the word, which raised a small smile on my part.

"I'm stronger." I stated, sipping the whisky. Mycroft, finished his off and nodded. We looked at each other evenly and without speaking, we silently settled any quarrel that could have been raised. I rose from the armchair and shook his hand firmly, as I would any other time. I departed from the Diogenes club on foot, needing a brisk walk in the cold London air.


	2. Laughter

**Laughter**

I had walked for so long that I lost track of all of my surroundings, thoughts and emotions. I had hit a brick wall, a mental block. I had to go back. I didn't know why I needed to, I just had a horrible ache in my chest, worry and anguish collided together so hard it shook my body, every nerve tingling with such passionate emotion. An emotion that suprised me. No matter what happens, I know the real Sherlock. My roommate. My bestfriend. The man I l-

"No. Just..no." I shook myself, pushing the thoughts away.

I looked about me, trying to gain some sort of indication of where I was, but none was found. I was surrounded by grey victorian style, back to back houses. Each house was impersonal yet thrusted against another, like prisoners in a crowded cell. I could see no-one, no cars, no life. I thrust my hand into my pocket, digging out my scratched phone. I typed in the number I had grown so familiar with, a concoction of happiness and anxiety brimmed within me. It began to ring.

"John." Sherlock simply stated.

I hesitated.

"Sherlock, are you still at home?"

We both didn't speak for moments. I had called it home. For the first time in just under a year, I had been able to address 221B with its proper title and I knew why I were able to. It's the life which resides within that truly makes a home, which creates such a beautiful atmosphere that you feel completely at ease in, and it was that arrogant, brilliant man who made it a home. I could feel my cheeks flushing with colour in embarassment. Perhaps this was what took Sherlock so long to answer, because he knew exactly how I feel. Bit not good.

"What do you need John?" he said carefully.

"My phone number is linked to a GPS, go on the site the woman from A Study in Pink was on."

It took him a mere couple of seconds to follow my vague instructions.

"It can't find you John." I rolled my eyes, _bloody technology. _I had a flashback of an argument I had once had with a chip and pin machine. I chuckled to myself and there was silence on the other end of the phone. I heard a slight scuffle of feet behind me and as I turned- it went black.

My eyes flickered, intense brightness blocking my vision and forcing them shut again. Eventually, I managed it. As my eyes focused and my surroundings were clear, I looked about me, still dazed. I was in 221B. That was clear enough. I was perched on the sofa, I scanned the wall behind me, the same yellow spray-painted smiley face stared at me. Definitely 221B but I couldn't push away the feeling that something was not normal. An emotionally corrupted ex-army soldier and doctor with a psychosematic limp who seeks the thrill of war and so finds that thrill with his recently-deceased but not actually deceased sociopathic flatmate and bestfriend who he moved in with after meeting just briefly, okay maybe it's not that far that normality can stretch in this house. I chuckled to myself, sounding almost drunk. Wait, drunk? I looked about me again and chuckled again. My brain and my body weren't communicating properly, why I found this amusing, I couldn't say but apparently I felt like laughing. So I laughed, over and over until my stomach hurt.

"John, what are you lau-?"

Before I could attempt to order myself, I had clambered off the sofa and stumbled towards the tall detective, who was stood at the frame of the kitchen. He seemed puzzled, scanning me up and down, trying to detect what was wrong with me. Truthfully, he wanted to bloody hurry up because I was keen to know myself.

"Shhherlock" I said, sounding a little childish.

"John."

"I donds know whaz wrong with meee Sherlo, I n-need your help" I slurred, swaying as I tried to keep myself steady while I stood infront of him.

A small flicker of triumph appeared on his face. Annoying dick. He's walked back into my life after sending me through hell and back and now he's got that smug look on his face. I'll bloody show him.

"Wipe that bloody lo-look, off yo' face Sher-"

Then I passed out at his feet with a loud thud. Brilliant.


	3. Drugged

**Drugged**

I woke up with my head pounding, resting against the floor. All I could see before me, were two feet and as I gazed slowly upwards to see who's feet I was at, I inwardly panicked. "I had collapsed at Sherlock's feet?" I was mentally punishing myself for giving the taller man such power over me. What had I said to him? Had I been drugged? Did he do something to me? So many questions, which I knew that he'd take his time bloody answering!

I pushed myself up off the floor and looked at him squarely in the eye. Trying my best to gather up some kind of dignity. But the cheshire cat smile which resided on his face was melting me inside, I couldn't keep this stern look up. I could feel his happiness consuming me. Any anger I had previously felt towards him had vanquished, he had complete control of me and I knew whole-heartedly why it had hurt me so much in his absence. But my personal feelings had to subside, I needed to find out why I was so weary, so weak.. because I refuse to be weak, the soldier within me will always keep me strong. I then finally gathered composure and spoke.

"Sherlock, what the bloody hell happened?"

My head still throbbed with the same sharded pain.

He gave me the look. I could feel myself becoming irritable.

"Don't give me the look, Sherlock because clearly only you know what happened. So spare me the whole intellectual prowess thing and just get down to it." I said flatly and his smile faltered a little, though he still managed to maintain his smug aura.

"You were drugged John," he said, his smile ceased and he had a simple look on his face. It bordered on patronising but I dismissed the thought before I got riled up again. "You've been unconscious for just under 48 hours. Bar fifteen minutes ago, when you clambered off the sofa and fell to my feet," Of course he'd take pleasure in reminding me of that bit, the git. "But it seems the drugs are out of your system. It's intriguing. You suffered a blow to the front of your head, though not too harmful that it caused serious damage, but showed various symptoms of drug intake, though after close inspection there are no wounds or physical evidence which show that you even introduced them to your system. You were attacked in a place where even my brother could not locate and then you stumbled into 221B about 4 hours after you had gone missing, persistently moaning about the 'serious lack of strawberry jam' and passed out on the sofa."

I breathed heavily, trying to take it all in. I sat down on my chair and Sherlock did the same. His hands pressed together and resting on his face, as they always did when he was thinking. I was thinking too, the most obvious way of introducing drugs to your system are oral entry, nasal entry or injection but all of which are tracable. Wait. Injections are often introduced in hospital via buttock. I flushed a shade of scarlett. Sherlock must have examined me. Luckily, he hadn't noticed this and so whatever small dignity I had left remained intact.

"So at the same time as the blow to the head, the drug must have been introduced?" I hoped my prognosis was correct.

"Precisely and from the symptoms you displayed in these 48 hours, the most likely drug that was introduced is methamphetamine. You slurred about things you were seeing, you coughed a lot, which shows that whoever had created the drug had done it to the best of his ability. But had it been injected directly into your head, it would have taken effect immediately as upon usual admittance to the body it only takes a mere few seconds for it to reach the brain and cause mass production of those 'rewarding' hormones and chemicals."

"But if you are to attack someone and drug them, why use Meth? I mean, why introduce something to the body that would give them a high? It sort of contradicts the purpose of causing harm.." I pondered the thought.

"Good thought, John. From inspection of your saliva and your hair, you still have traces of it on you so it's definitely Meth. But to what purpose? The game is afoot John. And how better to reconcile our troubles with a good case?" He smiled at me, a brilliant, beautiful smile which shattered all worry I had about having been drugged.

"Afterall, I've been lost without my blogger."

**AN: I'm not completely confident about this chapter, and I could really do with some readers opinions. So please, review! Thank-you for reading. :)**


	4. Smart Arse

**Smart Arse**

Sherlock stood up, a massive grin on his face and grabbed his coat and scarf. I had missed those items alone so, so much. He looked at me impatiently. I sighed, I've just been drugged and bashed in the head but I've still got to do everything his way. Typical. I went into my room quickly and grabbed a clean pair of jeans and stripy blue and black top, then I shoved on my jacket quickly as I could hear the not-so-subtle detective making loads of sighs downstairs for me to hurry up. Git. I looked in my mirror to make sure I looked at least decent, though the dark purple swelling above my right eye was seriously letting me down, more reason to feel inadequate. I moved out of the room with a swift motion, head twinging with a little pain.

We clambered down the stairs and straight out of the door. We were greeted by quiet, which was lovely. The last time me and Sherlock had left the house together, there had been either a mob of police or a mob of paparazzi. That said, I didn't expect the streets to be particularly busy, it was past midnight afterall. He hailed a cab to Scotland Yard and then waited in the back. I could see Sherlock inspecting the driver, we didn't want another crazed, ill killer driving around the streets of London. As I watched him concentrate and cast a worried glance towards me, it brought various thoughts to my own head. Despite the changes I had made in his absence, it seemed that I resumed back to the old me, the weaker but happier me that chased criminals without a second thought. But he was exactly the same, he never changed to suit anyone, he was Sherlock, arrogant but beautiful Sherlock and I felt ashamed. Shame that crept its way through me slyly, until I couldn't take it anymore and this shame was brought on by him. It had taken his death for me to realise exactly how I felt, to realise all the more how important he was. But I had hardly paid tribute to him, I had mourned and grieved harshly, changed who I was- the person who I know (or I hoped) he loved. But no more, I've always thought love was a mystery to him, but I was starting to see differently. I will continue being strong, but not for my own selfish distraction, for him. Because he was the person who needed protecting and I would do that, always. I didn't care that I had been hurt, because the only damage that could be done to me is if I lost him for good. Though my head did bloody well hurt.

"John. I appreciate that you're deep in thought, but removing yourself from this cab would be particularly convenient." I looked up abruptly, realising my surroundings. Sherlock was outside the door, beckoning me to leave. I smiled at the wingmirror which a pair of eyes were staring back at me in and left the vehicle. I mumbled sorry to Sherlock and off we went, hurriedly into the shabby looking Police building.

"You've only just got back, and you're already buzzing about the place again. Didn't you learn your lesson freak?" Sally Donovan spat from the doorframe of Lestrade's office. I could see Sherlock trying his best to resist from replying with something to wipe the repugnant woman's smug look off of her sour-face. She turned her attention to me then and shook her head disapprovingly, casting looks from me to Sherlock. "There're so many hobbies, but you still choose him." Oh because I'd rather collect stamps than solve mysterious crimes, right. I couldn't help myself, and I didn't realise that both Lestrade and Sherlock were watching me as I did so but it came out like word vomit. "There're so many men but you still choose_ him_." I indicated towards Anderson, who had a face like a slapped arse. Sherlock grinned and I couldn't help but laugh at her suprised reaction. Lestrade laughed quietly to himself, catching an evil glare from Donovan. He waved his hand for them to leave and they did so, casting jealous looks back. I closed the office door and perched in one of several seats infront of Lestrade's desk. Sherlock had already done the same.

"How you feeling John?" Lestrade asked curiously, looking at my head.

"Headachey, but I'll mend," I could see Sherlock smile out of the corner of my eye. "Any idea who did it?"

He shook his head, leaning back in his chair. "But, a new witness has surfaced: Jacqueline McCloud, 32 ex-army doctor," I raised an inquistive eyebrow and Sherlock seemed to perk up in his seat, listening intently. "She returned from Afghanistan around the same time as you John, got shot in the leg. She was walking, well limping, through an old victorian block in the city, she'd had an argument with her flatmate and needed air. She heard the scuffling of feet, then woke up at her flat a few days later. Traces of Meth in her hair and saliva, and bruising from a blow to the head. No signs of how the drugs were introduced to her system."

"Target Crimes." Sherlock interjected, we both raised our eyebrows. "The attacks were both on injured ex-army doctors who are under some kind of domestic stress. The injuries suffered by both effect their walking abilities, enabling attack to be easily carried out. Both in similar, abandoned locations where neither person has any genuine need to be and so no-one thinks to go looking there. You're looking for someone who's of lower rank in the army, forced out for some reason, who's still conflicted about causing direct harm to a previous member, they still have some kind of love of heirarchy and respect for it in the military, otherwise they'd use a more damaging drug. They also have an accomplice, who has access to military records to see who has retired and for what reason, also has a vendetta against the military for some reason and seeks to attack previous veterans indirectly- letting the other person do it for them: so they're at risk of losing their position, clearly they're still part of the army. The Meth is to make the victims feel better, give them a sense of invincibility- shows that they have a humane compassionate side, to accommodate for their assaults. The attacker seeks acknowledgement, while the accomplice seeks to get attention from a higher power, to highlight some problem. Now, don't hold back John." Sherlocks eyes were positively glowing with happiness.

Lestrade was in awe at such rapid information. He immediately started writing quick notes and proceeded out of the office to speak to his officers.

"I'm sorry?"

"Compliments. The compliments you give me out loud, don't be afraid to express them." He looked expectant.

"Well, I guess that was a pretty good detection.."

"It was brilliant, I always applaud my incredible eye for detail and ability to infer beyond the capability of your average, placid-minded individual." Such a humble man.

"In other words, you're a smart-arse." I mocked and he cocked an eyebrow. We laughed and exchanged a look, which became interlocked. As he stared into my eyes, I could feel him creeping into my mind, making me flush a little pink. I forced and awkward cough and for just a moment, (though I thought my eyes were decieving me) I saw his cheeks do the exact same.


	5. Protected Witness

**Protected Witness**

"I still haven't told you what happened at Barts." Sherlock said, suddenly. His voice cool and steady.

"I don't need to know." I didn't want to re-live that day.

"Molly Hooper."

"What about her?" I didn't understand him sometimes, but all the same, curiosity pushed me onwards and him saying her name did indeed send a sensation of jealousy through me, which I knew was silly.

"She knows John." Looking me straight in the eye, looking a little hesitant to say what he was about to say.

"Knows what?"

"She knows I faked my death. She helped me do it." I saw a watery film shrowd his eyes, but I then saw him recoil, pushing it back, trying to stop himself from being human. Why was he reacting this way? I mean, it hurt and slightly shocked me to know that he had trusted her with this and not me, but I know that my belief in his death was essential. But still, the green-eyed monster within me growled a little at the confession he had made. I knew Molly counted, she was a good person and I trusted her. She's also loved Sherlock for longer than I'd known her, and I had always thought this love had gone unrequited.. perhaps not. I couldn't sum up words, opening and closing my mouth trying to coaxe my brain into working.

"Oh.." Was all I could conjure up, my stomach gave an ache of hurt, it hurt more than my head because this was emotional pain, pain that had rare remedies that weren't always clear.

"I'm so, so sorry John." He had looked away from me at that point, and I could tell he was still holding back. I wanted to comfort him, hold him and tell him everything was okay, but the thought that I was just second best constantly replayed in my head and prevented me. Well, that and Lestrade re-entering the room at that moment.

"We've just been on the phone to the Hospital," he said, re-adjusting his tie, his face contorted with stress and the bags under his eyes showed how tired he was. "That compassionate side of the attacker clearly doesn't exist now.. Jacqueline McCloud died in her bed less than two hours ago." All three of us exchanged glances then, and then we were busy. Standing up quickly, Sherlock and I looked at him, imploring him for more data as we moved into the main part of large police space. "Listen up everyone!" Lestrade announced, his voice dominating the room, showing his power in this heirarchy. "Jacqueline McCloud, the second victim of our man was killed two hours ago. She suffered another blow to the head in the same spot, killing her painfully and instantly. Now I want you to search for any members of the Army who've recently been kicked out, I want motives, I want people, I want a suspect. Meanwhile, You, Compton! (He gestured to a dark haired Detective Sargeant) You and a few uniform boys will create a perimeter around 221B, I want that place watched. It's clear that the killer wanted to finish their job and these aren't just assaults, so John here, is our protected witness. Now you've got your orders, get moving!"

Officers began to rush around, phones were being rapidly dialed and people were typing aggressively. The whole room seemed to burst with action and life. While I just stood there like a lemon.

Donovan, Anderson, with me. We're going to McCloud's flat."

Sherlock and I went to walk with them but Lestrade stopped us. "Let us go in first, you're a key witness John, you're not allowed to get involved with the investigation on a proffessional level. Neither are you Sherlock. If we need you, I'll text. Now go home, lock your doors. Make some tea, watch the telly... I don't know- just stay put." The three hurried off and we proceeded outside in the cold morning air.

Sherlock smiled archily, he found this exciting clearly, and I knew exactly what he was thinking as he looked at me suggestively.

"No Sherlock. We're not allowed to get involved."

"When has Lestrade ever stuck to protocol?" The face he was pulling was making me go gooey, and I hated myself for it. Damn him.

"That's not the point Sherlock, I could get killed tonight! We can't interfere, please can we just go home?" I pleaded with him, my head was throbbing and I could kill for a piping hot cup of tea.

He then replied so instantaneously and so genuinely that it both suprised and soothed me.

"Of course, of course," That made me smile. "And John, you're not getting killed. You don't need some out-of-depth uniforms to protect you, you've got me." I knew this was a mass extention of feeling towards me from him and I'm sure saying something with such sentimental feeling was probably making him feel sick, but I appreciated it. Staying home for once, with Sherlock.

After what seemed like a long cab ride, we arrived at the flat. I took my jacket off and walked into the kitchen, putting on the kettle and returning to my armchair. Sherlock was laid across the sofa, poised like a child, curled up in a ball and facing away from me. I then heard movement and as I looked again, he was facing me. His curly locks sprawled across the surface, and his eyes shimmering with something- but my "placid mind" as he so kindly put it, couldn't trace what he was feeling. I shook off any thoughts about my flat-mate and returned to the kitchen, making myself a perfect cup of tea. Not too strong, not too weak and definitely no sugar. I turned on the telly and went to move my chair to be able to see it from a good point of view but Sherlock interrupted me.

"John, leave the chair. Just sit back here." He had re-positioned himself so that he was sat cross-legged at the right side of the sofa, he had roled the sleeves of his blue shirt up and I could see three cigerette patches on his arm. He was having a three-patch problem. I coughed a little, feeling a little uncomfortable to be sat in such close proximity with him. I held the tea close to my chest, breathing in its sweet aroma and letting its warmth spread through me. I searched for the remote carefully, trying not to spill the hot beverage that rested in my left-hand. It was under Sherlock's thigh, it must'ves slipped down there. It would be embarassing to retrieve it, and very strange, so I just hoped that he'd notice. He did. He retrieved it from underneath him and took control of the remote. Great, some programme he'll get annoyed with, just like he does with board games. But as I watched him flick gracefully through the channels (though I didn't believe anyone could do it gracefully) he put on my favourite show: Doctor Who. He caught my eye very briefly and I coughed slightly again, licking my lips.

This was going to be a long night.


	6. Rose

**Rose**

"He's the most intellectual, wise, charasmatic and moral person in the universe, and they're putting him in a box?"

"It's the Pandorica, Sherlock. Not a box."

"But even so, who would want to cease the existence of the most brilliant man in the universe, when they know he'll always be better?"

I paused before I replied to this, as I knew it would start a conversation that had we continued to plod along normally, would go unsaid. The truth was, knowing that the only love that went unrequited was mine, was a classic example of loves keen sting and I hated it. I wanted him to speak to me, even if it was about Molly.

"...Moriarty." I said, inhaling and exhaling deeply, feeling the cool oxygen penetrate my body and force its way down to my lungs. I saw sadness in Sherlock's grey eyes. He turned the telly off and looked at me properly. If we were going to be serious, it would start now. My head gave a slight pang of ache, but I pushed it away, adjusting the head bandage Mrs Hudson had forced upon me.

"I wanted to tell you, John. You must believe that." His eyes were pleading with me, but they didn't have to.

"I do. I've always believed in you, even after you were- gone" I choked the last word out after several stuttered attempts.

Sherlock's face was monotonous. He was trying to formulate the right words in his head, analysing every word I had just said to conjure the perfect response. But this talk was heading in one direction: emotions. I know it wasn't his strong suit, but I liked to think I remind he was human, and if I couldn't have him in any other way; I would always, always act as the best friend that he needed.

"John, I- I needed Molly, to avoid actually dying." was all he could come up with. There it was, another pang of jealousy and sadness hit me. I couldn't bring up words, so I just nodded firmly. I wished there was still tea in my mug so I could feel less exposed, my face was on full display and there was no way of hiding what I was feeling. Sherlock seemed to have acknowledged this but didn't give me the privacy that I desired, instead he analysed my face and I could see him finally reach a conclusion of what to say. He cleared his throat and spoke with sincerity, so I wouldn't dare question him.

"I don't love her John."

I had never felt so confused. My brain seemed to thrash about all different theories and thoughts at the same time, preventing me to single any of them out and follow them up. I was completely lost, tiredness withering me, pain seething from my swelling and aches brimming from my heart. He didn't love her, and yet I still felt all that pain. His eyes were filled with tears, and I hadn't seen such expression since the horrific day that I lost him. I turned to face him properly and he had done the same. I bit my lip slightly, to prevent myself from releasing a torrent of rushed feelings.

"Do you understand what I'm trying to say?" He asked kindly, trying his best to summon a small but sad smile.

I shook my head, laughing a little shakily out of uncomfortableness. I clenched my hands into fists repeatedly.

"She's _Martha_."

I couldn't help myself, the laughter just forced itself out of me. "You what?" I said, trying to stop the giggles.

"She's _Martha Jones_! " He was trying to be serious but my reaction was making him laugh too "John, listen to me!" I cradled my stomach as I laughed heartily into it. "What, what's so funny?"

"I just can't believe the comparisons you're making! Who's Mycroft? _The Master._" I continued laughing, I couldn't stop it, it was taking over me and Sherlock tried to calm me down with pleas to "shut up" or "let him finish". I finally calmed myself (well to some extent) and gestured for him to continue.

"You're _Rose_." His voice was vulnerable and childish, his eyes looked scared but had a glitter of hope in them and I had never seen him like this before. Which was strange, given the dialogue he was saying, but it made it all the more special. Sherlock, in his own odd way, was trying to express himself. It made butterflies in my stomach flutter, making me forget about all my other troubles and focus entirely on him. Since I was relishing in such a strange, but heartfelt statement, he continued:

"You're the person who changed me for the better. Even though I deny my human side, you constantly bring it out in me. No matter how much I try to deny you, or push away these emotions, you stir them within me. It killed me to be seperated from you John, and no other will ever match you." A small tear slid down his cheek at that point, and my body mimicked. In perfect unison, we both extended a hand and took the other. He took my pulse and I did the same; accelerated heartbeats. Sherlock waited for a few moments and acknowledged it too. We then looked at each other again, directly. His eyes were bright and he was smiling, it infected me. I took his hand properly and squeezed it, a gesture which he repeated. His eyes, still with their childish appearance, looked playful.

He whispered to me softly and winked: "_Bad Wolf."_


	7. Catch you later

**Catch you later**

I had never in all of my life, felt so connected to someone. Every fibre of my being was screaming at me to kiss him but I held back, concentrating the passionate emotion I was feeling on holding his hand and smiling at him. That was all I needed right now, just some kind of connection to him, we didn't even need to talk. We just had to hold onto each other. He looked perfectly happy too, he was sat very still, the only movement he made was to stroke my hand with his thumb or smile at me. He looked like he was glowing. I couldn't describe just how happy I felt, words couldn't possibly do it justice. But as we delved deeper and deeper into such a beautiful moment, I could feel tiredness creeping up on me and I knew that I had to rest, though I hated the thought of tearing myself away from him. There had been such a rush of events in the past few days that my body was unable to catch up and function properly.

He saw me trying to keep my eyes open and leaned forward to inspect me closer. I blushed a little, feeling giddy. He beamed at me, it was an adorable sight and innocence emnated from him. I kept closing my eyes for several moments before opening them again, forcing myself to stay awake. He broke the hand contact and stood up, flexing his arms and legs to get the blood-flowing. He then turned to look at me again. "You should go to bed."

I yawned, brushing a hand through my hair. I did it a little too roughly though, as I knocked the swelling underneath the bandage and winced a little. Sherlock was alert and bent down towards me, checking me. "I'm fine, just being a rough sod." I laughed. I got up slowly, making the odd "ooh" as I did so, my muscles still ached a little. I picked up my mug slowly and motioned carefully into the kitchen, putting it carefully into the sink. Thinking of nothing but the comforting arms of my bed. That was all I wanted. As I went to mechanically move myself to my bedroom, I muttered a quick "goodnight" to Sherlock, who had settled down into his arm chair, hands pressed together, leant against his face again. He nodded and gave a small smile.

After what seemed like a considerably long time, I reached my bedroom. I closed the thin wooden door quietly, moving towards my satin-sheeted, double bed. Mrs Hudson had insisted when I first got here that she would make sure I got a good night sleep, so she dressed the bed with the most relaxing decor imaginable. God bless her (But she still insists she's not our housekeeper!) I slipped my shoes off at the foot of the bed, ordering them precisely so that they rested slightly on the army trunk that resided underneath the bed. Even out of the army, I still tried to remain neat and acted with complete precision. I tugged my top off and then my trousers, folding them delicately and placing them on top of a large chest of drawers next to the window of the bedroom, on the left-hand side. My temperature was soaring high, so I had no shame of going to bed in just boxers. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and paused for a few seconds; looking at the scar tissue on my shoulder. I run my hand along it, tracing the line smoothly. It felt cooler than the rest of my body. I grimaced a little at the sight of it. I switched the light off and climbed into bed. The cool sheets were pulling me in with a soft touch and I could feel sleep claiming me, I fell further and further towards unconsciousness and I released, allowing myself to float comfortably down into a dream-state, my very own tranquility.

"Hello John." A male's voice echoed, it sounded definite yet soft, with the slightest touch of irish to it. It was vaguely familiar. Wait no, it was _very _familiar.

I could feel a slight breath on the back of my neck and I was alert, but unafraid. I could feel my fist clencing and unclenching, as usual. I looked about me but all I could see was darkness. I called out, not knowing which way to look, so I looked in every which way.

"I'm disappointed... I'm disappointed! Now I know you're _definitely_ ordinary, but you couldn't possibly forget meee?" His voice had a trace of madness and I was then certain of who it was.

Moriarty.

"It's funny this, the dead seem to keep uhh- popping up.." I couldn't see him. No matter where I looked, there was nothing. Nothing but darkness. I couldn't even see myself.

"Even after death, I'm still Mr Sex.." his tone was almost unidentifiable. He mostly sounded bored, but Moriarty was a madman and he was never, ever bored. He would play games with people to satisfy his lust for fun. Except his fun meant pain for any who he wished to be hurt.

"Why're you here?" The cooking pot of anger was simmering within me, this was afterall, the man who had sought to destroy Sherlock.

He laughed, it echoed around me and it menaced.

"Catch you later." his pronounced each word definitively, reminding me of the scene by the poolside and then suddenly, darkness around me dissolved.

I woke up in my bed, the cool sheets were mis-shaped and I had a chill of sweat on my brow. Why the hell had I been dreaming about Moriarty? I sighed with relief. Moriarty was dead. He was gone. It was just a dream. My phone buzzed from my bed-side table. I picked it up, my eyes still adjusting to the daylight. It was nine o'clock.

"**But was it just a dream?**" It read from an Unknown number.

I dropped the phone and froze. My eyes widened. What the?


	8. I've told you before

**I've told you before**

My mind was thrashing questions around. I couldn't believe it. Who the hell was that? How did they know about Moriarty? What exactly was going on? I mean, the impossible and the probable didn't make sense anymore and instead intertwined, making things hard to examine and decipher. It had to be some kind of hoax. I shook myself. Just a joke. Maybe someone who works for Mycroft saw in some hidden camera that I was having a bad dream and told him about it? Who knows? But for now, I needed tea. Tea and a tall consulting detective. I had already spent fifteen minutes frantically worrying, I needed to keep calm.

After throwing a dressing gown on quickly, I made my way to the kitchen. Glancing into the living room I saw the man who I needed, poised comfortably in his armchair and then I saw Mycroft in my chair, sat in exactly the same way. I didn't want to disturb them so I put the kettle on to boil, being exceedingly quiet. Until I knocked a bowl of what looked like pickled fingers over on the floor. It hadn't taken him too long to start his bloody experiments again then! I didn't even know how to clear them up, I just froze. It was too much. Every little stress was piling on top of me. I thought that I had reached my optimum peak in both emotional and physical strength after all of the woes of Sherlock but my subconscious was clearly still battered, that text really had unnerved me. I looked back down at the small fingers that were scattered on the kitchen floor, feeling a little sick.

"Leave the fingers John." Sherlock spoke flatly.

I stepped over them, wondering what experiment could possibly require pickled fingers, but this was Sherlock, so it could've been bloody anything!

"John." Mycroft smiled, greeting me politely before resuming whatever heated conversation he was having. I perched myself on the sofa, observing Holmes the elder and younger quarrel about something I'd missed.

"It's the safest facility in the country!" Mycroft argued, his tone slightly impatient. That was to be expected, of all the difficult tasks he had to carry out, the most difficult one was definitely his younger brother, who always appeared broody in his brother's company.

"It's no safer than here." Sherlock said stubbornly.

"Sherlock, for heaven's sake, grow up! I'm offering the best possible prote-"

"And we decline!"

I didn't quite understnad what they were going on about, but I knew that my part of the conversation had been taken by Sherlock who appeared to be answering for the both of us.

"And if I were to ask the delightful Mr Watson here?" Mycroft smiled after saying that and Sherlock tensed a little. I could see the age-old sibling rivalry constantly changing the context of their conversations- it was always a competition.

"Um- ask me what?" Both men turned abruptly to look at me, as though they'd forgotten I was even present. The looks on their faces were polar-opposites. Mycroft had a mischevious smile upon his face, while Sherlock looked pissed off to say the least. Bit not good.

"I said no, Mycroft." Sherlock looked positively menacing, there would be no changing his mind and I think Mycroft knew that. He stood up, giving Sherlock a cold glance and then walking towards me, "John" he shook my hand and set off for the door. I watched as the man who practically ran the British Government completely disappeared.

"What was all that about?" I asked, my voice sounding vaguely innocent. I didn't want to be too forthright with Sherlock, his moods after Mycroft's visits could be particularly foul.

"He wanted us to leave 221B and remain idle in some protection facility in Yorkshire while they chased up your attacker."

"Okay.. so why can't we go?"

Sherlock gave me a look that silenced me instantly. His blue/grey eyes were gleaming with supressed rage that was being focused on me. He didn't even speak, he didn't speak for hours. He didn't move either. He just stayed in his armchair refusing to do anything. For a while I just sat and waited for some kind of answer, but I knew it wasn't coming. So I got dressed, I made tea and I proceeded to write in my blog- well, I didn't manage to achieve anything as the sound of typing clearly rattled the detective and he gave me another cold look. For someone who tries to convince the world he doesn't care for the trivial and pathetic drabbles of average people's lives, he was a wee bit of a hypocrite. He kept re-living a childish feud and he was giving me the silent treatment and not explaining the actual cause. That was pretty average to me. Finally, after nearly 4hours he spoke.

"I've told you before John, you don't need uniforms to keep you safe. You've got me." He said sternly, almost dismissively. From my own observation, I'd say that this mood was brought on by Mycroft, not me questioning his decision.

"I know."


	9. Follow me

**Follow me**

After another few hours of dull silence from the miserable detective, I stood up. I craved some kind of adrenaline. I wanted to know how they drugged me. How they killed Jacqueline. I wanted to investigate. Oh good lord. I'm becoming like Sherlock. I stretched a little, which caught Sherlock's attention. He watched as I carefully extend my limbs in order to liven up the muscles. My head wasn't hurting anymore, it just looked sore so I kept the bandage on, out of dignity. I had a plan: I would text Lestrade, meet him and consult with him. Yes, that sounds good. I nodded to myself, licking my lips. "Right" I went to walk towards the door but Sherlock interjected.

"Lestrade won't see you." I just looked at him quizically. "He won't see me and that John, certainly is saying something."

I sighed. I needed movement, thrill, some fun! After doing this for so long, you forget all of the woes of chasing criminals and instead examine the sheer adrenaline that you endorse in doing it, it was incredibly exhilarating. I felt like I was in my late adolescence. I had the capability to do whatever I liked, but I was still under the ruling of a higher power whom prevented me. Sod this. I smiled to myself- I knew exactly what I was going to do. I retrieved my phone from my pocket, clumsily. I unlocked it and began to compose a message:

"**Sarah, fancy going for a drink? Been cooped up all day. JW x"**

You might be confused as to why I'd text Sarah, I mean I used to try get off with her. Well, I liked her true enough, but no longer in a romantic way. The truth was, when Sherlock was absent, she was there for me a lot- though I could be a little dismissive towards her. I cared for her as she was my boss, but I had a good laugh with her. I needed fun. I also needed space from the broody detective, his moods could suck the happiness dry out of the room. It took only a couple of seconds to recieve a reply.

"**Be at Betty's in an hour, Sarah x"**

I smiled broader, resembling the Cheshire Cat I assume. I paced quickly back to my bedroom,I removed my bandage and I gelled my hair neatly after putting on a smart shirt and cardigan. I splashed on some expensive aftershave- a christmas present from Sarah. I looked at my head carefully, the bruising had gone down a little. I decided to abandon the bandage, it was getting dark out anyway, surely no-one would notice? I closed my bedroom door carefully, eager to leave the flat. As I reached the living room, Sherlock was stood up, arms folded, looking at me scornfully. I could feel my shoulders tensing and my smile being forced into a line. What was the problem now? He scanned me, his face contorted.

"You're going out."

"Yes, well done."

"Not quite sticking to the Inspector's inpenetratable instructions." He said, taking on the manor of a child. He looked stroppy.

"That wasn't your attitude before?" I looked away from him. I couldn't face those eyes after making comments because he'd freeze me, not with his handsome looks, but with his ice-cold words that would rudely slip off of his tongue. I just braced myself and waited.

I looked at him again, he still appeared stern, his whole body tense. He was worried, though I couldn't decipher why. It still astonished me how riddled with suprises one man could be. He always acted with precision and complete spontinuity. He was a brilliant contridiction. I shook my head, flattery filled me up. It calmed me to know he cared. I just walked towards him, I awkwardly placed my hand on his shoulder and squeezed a little. Then I left the house quickly, leaving Sherlock in the flat to probably begin on some gruesome experiment.

The air had a chilly bite to it, which clung to you. I wished I had brought my jacket as well as my cardigan. After keeping my arms crossed tightly, preserving warmth a taxi arrived.

"Betty's" I said calmly. The driver nodded and pulled away from the curb.

Betty's was a kind of pub/club that played all kinds of music. In one of my darkest days of grieving, Sarah had convinced me to accompany her on its opening and it had been one of the best days of those hopeless times, which really, really was saying something. It had the same vibe and look of your usual bar's, but it had that touch of "club" that seemed dark and futuristic. It had a good reputation too, there were rarely any fights or attacks and the staff were completely proffessional- providing a safe atmosphere, well as safe as an establishment like that could be. It was near Trafalgar Square, on the corner of a side street. It was incredibly popular, understandably.

Finally, the cab arrived. I paid the man and left, looking at the busy entrance and scanning the area for Sarah. One of the bouncers noticed me, leaving the entrance to speak to me. Odd.

"Are you.." The burly man looked down at the black clipboard his bear-sized hand was clutching. "John Watson?"

I choked a little, forgetting my name. The man was incredibly intimidating afterall. It seemed that Sarah had been incredibly organised tonight. Though I hadn't expected her to be able to accomplish this, usually the bouncer's would still make me queue up.

"Y-yes, yeah that's me." I smiled.

He nodded. "Follow me."


	10. Cast Out

**Cast Out**

The bear-sized man trunched infront of me, pushing past the crowds of people and leading into the club directly. We walked past the coat rooms, not pausing but maintaining a quick pace. I looked about me as I followed, different areas of the bar appearing and then disappearing. I looked to the spot where Sarah and I had previously resided, in the far corner, furthest away from the exit but closer to the dancefloor and bar- a strategic placement for a grieving man in need of distractions and a caring woman who had had the difficult task doted upon her. But the bouncer was still leading me elsewhere, the bright lighting was hard for my eyes to adjust to but soon we were no longer in the busy main body of the building but through a set of thick-set double doors which lead to what seemed like a VIP lounge. The bouncer stopped and I took in my surroundings. It had the same colour scheme as before but more accessible, classy even. There was a cushioned circular booth with an ebony table placed in the middle with two glasses set upon coasters on the edges of the booth. I had expected to see Sarah perched there and smiling up at me, but she was nowhere to be seen. No matter, I'm sure she'd be arriving soon. The bouncer looked at me, even his face looked bear-ish and not the cute teddy-kind. He had a cold hard stare and I looked away uncomfortably. I took a seat on the right-hand side of the booth and as I did so, the bouncer left but I saw his head through a circular window on one of the doors in which we had entered. Another head joined him on the other side, guarding the contents of this room. Then it hit me like a ton of bricks. Sarah had not arranged such elaborate measures of isolation. She couldn't have done. So who was my companion for the evening?

I looked about for any sign of another entrance, but the artificial light of the room was not enough to give away a location of one. Until, quite suddenly and escaping my notice of where he had come from: a man appeared to stand before me. I couldn't identify any of his facial features, but I noted his size; he was roughly 5''10ft in height and he had a slight build, with muscles showing slightly in his arms. He was wearing a smart dark blue suit which shimmered slightly under the lighting, it was fitted and tailored to suit him. A designer suit. It was times such as this which I wished I had the brilliant deductive powers of Sherlock. I see but do not observe, as he says. The man strode boldly towards me, his right arm bent slightly, he was holding something. He sat down heavily and looked at me, placing a bottle of Dissarono in the middle of us. I could fill a cold chill creeping over me, I knew without a shadow of a doubt that something was happening (I'd be a fool if I didn't) but I was also full of dread and anguish as to the whereabouts and circumstances of the woman I had expected to accompany me tonight. I still couldn't make out his face properly, but I could tell that he had light brown hair, parted at the slide and slicked. I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up and the atmosphere of the room seemed to be filled with static- I was waiting for the lightning to strike.

"Apologies to have interrupted you in your plans, Dr Watson." He had a harsh Scottish accent, a glaswegian I presume. His voice was exceedingly masculine and dominant. He unscrewed the top of the drink and poured himself a steady amount. He then gestured to me, so I pushed my glass forward and watched as he poured the liquid into it. I muttered a thanks and pulled it gently towards me. "Curious, Dr Watson, how you strode in so blindly and enthusiastically. Surely a soldier knows to keep a steady eye for slight peculiarities and create precautions. But it has been quite some time for you hasn't it? Since you were in Afghanistan, serving for the Army."

He knew I had military history. Possibly my attacker. The man continued:

"I know how you feel. They sent me back aswell. The only people who had given me purpose and they sent me back. I disobeyed an order from my sargeant. He wanted me and the boys to shoot upon a civillian village without any real evidence that the enemies were there. It was inhabitated, Dr Watson. They wanted us to gun down innocent civillians for no reason and after I convinced some of my comrades to fight his order, he bared down on me. He was notorious for unneeded violence was our sargeant. So when I tried to fight his order, he decided to punish me in the worst possible way- by casting me out."

He took a hard swig of his drink and made a small noise after. The tension in the room was building and I could feel this mans anger, it radiated off of him. I took a gulp of my own drink, it stung cooly as it fell down my throat. He had already began speaking again.

"I wasn't the first to be abandoned. Another man I know, he had evacuated a whole church and village all by himself after the rest of his men aimlessly ran towards the enemy in hope of a butchering. But this bravery was seen as cowardice and so they carted him off, stripped all of his titles, all of his glory. He had served under a different regiment and yet his superiors were still the same, ugly fascists who I had become so familiar with. They sent him back here, after all of the horrors he had witnessed and told him to adjust to everyday life. They refused all help. From then on, we decided that we'd send a message to those god-damn superiors. We'd show them, how we never, ever leave and we vowed to give the emotional trauma to all the other bastards who served under the pigs." He practically spat the words out, hissing them.

"Two bad superiors, that shouldn't be the kick-start to a war on all members and ex-members of the army." I said, my voice strong.

"Your loyalty does you credit, Doctor Watson. But do you know the fate that had originally been intended? For the soldiers like me and my friend? ...Execution. Those glorified killers who act all high and noble willing to murder their own. Fucking dispicable."

"But isn't that exactly what you're doing? You attacked me. You killed another. What makes you think that violence is going to stop it?"

"You were sent away because you were no use to them anymore. Cast out, after taking a bullet for them. We tried doing this peacefully. We sent letter after letter, but were ignored. We filed complaints, they were disposed of. More and more men were being sent back to this hellhole, forced to adapt or to be executed. They don't care for us. What sort of life is that? I'm doing them a kindness. I'm taking away their pain."

"That's why you injected Meth." I concluded.

"Exactly. That's all we want. To make good of the wrongs they have caused. We will have our own force, an army of invincibles, how can they ignore us any longer? We will protect the poor souls who are waiting to be cast out. We will take them down."

"You can't convert people. That's not how it works. No matter how wrong they were, you can't just cast aside all loyalty you have for them. It's sickening that they're capable of that, but we joined up knowing that this was part of it. They court marshalled people in the World Wars for christ sake! War is a cruelty, yet we willing exposed ourselves to it. So whatever you're trying to play, with your Meth army, it won't work. They're too strong." I sounded dismissive. Though I was no Sherlock, I assumed that the attacks like mine and Jacquelines were a kind of backwards recruitment. They would strike us and scare us, inject us so we felt invincible and hopefully get us on side, if not then..

"You killed Jacqueline because she wouldn't co-operate?" I asked, disgusted.

"She was of no use to us. She swore blind faith to them, she had no measurable talent and she was weak. You on the other hand, will be of great use to us."

"Not bloody likely." I stood up, leaving the booth and venturing for the door. The bodyguards had entered the room though and seized me before I had had the chance to leave. The man stood up slowly and pulled something out of his pocket. It looked sharp and his thumb rested on the end of it, with his index and middle finger holding the front of it- a syringe. He moved towards me slowly and carefully, every step seemed to thud against the floor and I struggled against the animals who gripped me.

"You're going to need us, Doctor Watson. Afterall, addiction is a hard thing to beat.. alone." His voice was menacing and he thrust the needle into my arm, which was outstretched by the same bouncer who had lead me in.

The whole room went spinning and I couldn't see where I was going. They pushed me forward and I think I landed on one of the booths. I could feel myself flitting in and out of unconsciousness. I was screaming at myself to get up and fight them, to fight off the effect. The numbness was spreading through me rapidly and I knew that they'd injected me with Meth again. I coughed harshly, my head throbbing with confusion and then everything went black as I felt my head lowering towards the cushioning of the booth.


	11. Blood in the Alcohol System

**Blood in the Alcohol System**

I strained my eyes open and the artificial light burst through, it felt like I was looking directly into the sun. After a few dazed attempts of lifting my head and focusing my eyes, I succeeded. I was sprawled across the same booth that I had talked to my attacker in, but how long had I been here? I tried to steady myself as I pushed up myself up but my arms were shaky and I was out of control. I squinted, trying to make out who was in the room with me, it looked like the same man from before, with his two animals stationed either side of him. It felt like my brain was throwing itself at the skull and I cried out in pain. It didn't feel as bad as this last time. I coughed, it was dry and made my throat feel hoarse and rough. The man stepped forward towards me, looking at me, staring at me even. Suddenly I felt a hand jerk my chin up and I continued to blink uncontrollably. He dropped my face, as though he was disgusted by it and I remained sitting down, swaying slightly.

"Don't worry Doctor Watson, this nasty effect will wear off in a couple of minutes. We just want you to have a really, really good night." That scottish voice sounded smug and powerful, I might so far as to say patronising. I would have argued, or even put up a fight but the drug was making me heavy and my brain was only just processing thoughts properly. He pushed the bottle of dissarono towards me, I could see the whites of his eyes gleaming underneath the lighting. I had two options: drink it or try my best to put up a fight and get my arse kicked or even worse, killed. I knew my choice almost instantly. I took the bottle (though it was more of a snatch) and glugged it down forcefully, necking nearly three quarters of the bottle. No chance of sobering up now.

"Wise choice." he laughed. He grabbed my shoulders, clutching at my clothing he dragged me up so I was standing up (though still swaying slightly, and blinking incessantly) and inches away from his face, which still seemed infuriatingly distorted. "Now listen to me. You're going to have the fun you wanted tonight, but there's no escaping us. You'll fight for our cause, because if it doesn't kill you, then we most certainly will... but we don't want that now do we?" He released one hand from my shoulder and shook my head for me, if I had been sober i'd have headbutted him. I could see his teeth shining as he smiled up at me evily. "We'll be in touch, Doctor Watson." He let go of me, smoothing my cardigan as I tried to gain my balance. He waved his hand and the bouncer I was familiar with opened the door back into the main body of the club and indicated with his head. I looked into the other room and saw the party-goers drinking and dancing. I huffed and puffed as I trunched off, into the other room, the conversation I had had with the man escaping my memory.

I wandered aimlessly into the middle of the dancefloor, where people were jiving and twisting to The Beatles Twist and Shout, which blasted through the room and pumped a bassline through the floor. I could feel the powerful rhythm building up in me and my foot began to tap. In what seemed like slow motion, my body slowly began to move, mimicking that of the neighbouring dancers and suddenly I was swinging and jiving like nobody could bloody stop me! I felt happy, extremely happy- as though nothing could go wrong. Then I bumped into someone.

"Iiii'm sshorry." I laughed. Then I realised who it was.

"You started drinking without me?" Sarah was stood there, smiling up at me and laughing at the state I was in. I smiled widely and grabbed her hands. I spun her around and we quickly began dancing like the others, but in a pair. I had no idea what we must've looked like but we had no care in the world, the music was infectious and I didn't want to stop dancing. Sarah left me after a couple more tracks of swing to get a few shots. She lead me over to the booth in the far corner and I slouched into the chair. She laughed at me. "H-how much h-have you h-had?" I noticed that she stammered a lot on the H's and this made me laugh like a madman. She had become tipsy after only two shots. I had taken them too, but in usual circumstances I was a relatively strongweight when it came to alcohol.

"I d-don't know, but i fink der is serioooous amount of blood in ma alcohol shystem." We both paused, thinking over what I had just said. We both laughed heartily. I felt so brilliant and it was the exact release I needed. I still felt a strange longing in my stomach though. I loved this, but I was missing something. Of course. Sherlock. I began smiling to myself and Sarah was becoming increasingly more drunk by the seems of things. I felt a buzz in my trouser pocket. I fumbled clumsily into it to get my phone and pulled it out, clutching it with both hands as an act of safety from my drunken clumsiness. It was already 10 o'clock. I must've been out cold for a really long time in the VIP lounge, but I pushed away the thought at the time, as though it wasn't important.

There were several messages waiting for me, which read:

"**John, it's not safe for you to go out alone! Which bar are you at? I'm coming to get you!" **That was from Lestrade, nearly two hours ago.

"**John?**" Another from Lestrade, not long after the first.

"**We know where you are, now stay put. Me, Sherlock and Mycroft are on our way to get you!**" That was half an hour ago.

It then struck me that they were going to get here soon, but the drunken and drugged John Watson found that to be the perfect drive to party more. Bit not good.


	12. Rude Boy

**Rude Boy**

I slipped the phone back into my pocket and stumbled slightly, trying to get to Sarah. I shouted a barely-audible "wooo" against the sound of Rihanna's song _Rude Boy_. I got up abruptly, triumphantly managing to steer my way in the correct direction without any balance issues.

Sarah began calling to me and as soon as I set foot on the hard panelled flooring, I could feel my body loosening up with the sound waves. I began walking and dancing over to her. I didn't even know I knew the words to the song, but apparently I did and by God, did I bloody sing!

"Come here rude boy, boy can you get it up? Come here rude boy, boy is you big enough!"

I slurred a little, but so did the other partiers. The dancefloor was packed and we all seemed to bust a groove like the barbadian singer herself. Sarah had wandered off somewhere, but I was too lost in the song. The bass kicked up. I felt bloody amazing and I hadn't realised that over by the bar, stood three of my closest friends, who were watching as I thrusted and jived enthusiastically- each one with their jaws dropped.

"Tonight imma let'chooo be the captain!"

Soon it reached the best part of the song, and all of the dancers sang and danced in the same raunchy, drunken way. But suddenly the crowd had moved into a circle, forcing me into the middle as they all danced and encouraged me to wiggle my hips all the more.

"I like the way you touch me there, I like the way you pull my hair, Baby if I don't feel it, I aint faking no-no" The crowd echoed I teased them, winking at them and grinding all the more. I then spotted the wide-eyed Mycroft, Lestrade and Sherlock who had moved closer to watch this display. I turned to face them directly and the crowd cheered encouragingly. I was directing all of this energy at one person in particular and he hadn't expected it at all. For once, the world's only consulting detective was baffled by human behaviour.

"I like when you tell me kiss you there, I like when you tell me move it there, so giddy up, time to get it up, you say you're a rude boy, show me what you got nowwww!"

I wiggled my index finger at him. "Come here right nowww" I bit my lip playfully and cackled. Then we all merged together again in a crowd and jigged our hips and jerked in time to the chorus. I was never going to live it down, but at that moment- I really didn't care.

Finally the song ended and some of the crowd dispersed. I stopped dancing, applauding the rest of the partiers as they did the same. I shook the sweat off of my brow, took off my cardigan and unbuttoned some of my shirt. Mycroft was the only person who was stood watching me now, and I swaggered over to him, happy as a clam.

"Mmmycroft!" I greeted him, feeling nothing but delight.

He was smiling broadly, an odd sight but a pleasant one all the same. He sighed and jerked his head toward a different booth. He walked briskly ahead of me, while I stumbled behind him, smiling at other people, getting claps on the back and I returned these by putting my thumbs up. It was really, really brilliant. Finally, I reached the booth where the three men resided. Sherlock and Lestrade were sat next to eachother, Sherlock next to the wall and Lestrade perched on the edge. Mycroft took the seat opposite and patted the space next to him. I giggled, pushing myself onto the seat, trying to keep my balance. I looked up at all three men who were staring at me intently. I couldn't help but smile and Lestrade looked like he was trying to restrain himself from laughing.

"John, I didn't have you p-pegged down as a Rihanna fan.." he lost his restraint and started cackingly, which evidently set me off to. Mycroft raised an eyebrow and Sherlock looked slightly bewildered. Mycroft chuckled a little too and Sherlock's gaze was fixated on me. Though I couldn't tell how he was feeling, I just knew that his eyes were glistening while staring at me. Mycroft chose to interject.

"On to more.. pressing matters. John, do you realise how dangerous tonight could have been for you? You could have been in mortal peril. I don't dishearten your fun, as truthfully, it was incredibly amusing to see you like this. But none of us here are willing to put your life into jeapardy. Do you understand me?"

I was trying to focus on him, but I couldn't. Lestrade was smiling at me, his tanned face glowing in the light. Sherlock continued to stare, not speaking a word, though his mouth and twisted slightly into a smirk. I replied to this facial expression toothily and I cackled, rolling my head back in the laugh and returning it upright again. I looked about me.

"Where Sarah go?" I asked, puckering my lips slightly, using my hands to manouvre across the table in search of a drink. Though there wasn't one to be found.

"Sent one of the boys from the yard to take her home. We thought she was quite drunk, but you make her look bloody sober!" he chuckled.

They all looked at me then, expecting me to speak. I felt as though the spotlight had been put upon me and I didn't know what else to say. They carried on discussing things amongst themselves, I wasn't interested. I would just sway and move my upper body in time to the music that still blitzed its way through the club. The room seemed like it was spinning around me and I couldn't focus properly. I started laughing beyond control and all three men exchanged strange looks. They all seemed to have come to a conclusion silently, and all of a sudden, Lestrade was hoisting me out of the seat, with Mycroft and Sherlock behind us. Lestrade put my hand on his shoulder and intstructed me to follow him. I happily obliged, but as we cut through the room, I couldn't help but wiggle my hips and dance as I went. I let out the odd "Wheyyy!" or lyric to whatever song it was that was playing, but I could feel long fingers on my back, prodding me slightly. I turned round to see who it was, and for a brief moment Sherlock smiled at me and winked, before pushing me forward again. How could I not obey him? He had a tight fitting purple shirt under his suit (and coat) which in my drunken state, I mentally named "the purple shirt of sex". He looked pretty delicious in it, I had to admit. I smiled happily as I dawdled out of the club and got into a dark Mercedes, probably owned by Mycroft.

I kept drifting to sleep and back to consciousness in the car, I felt great but I was pretty tired. I could tell that I kept switching shoulders, as one minute I was on a consulting detective and the next, I was on the Detective Chief Inspector of Scotland Yard. Spoilt for choice. I laughed to myself, my voice croaking. Mycroft turned his head from the passenger seat at the front to cock an eyebrow at me. I let out a "Ha!" sounding incredibly similar to the Tenth Doctor from Doctor Who.

"Alonsey!" I said, smiling happily.

"Alonsey?" Lestrade asked, but not to me, to Sherlock.

"He's a Doctor Who fan." Sherlock said flatly, as though it were common knowledge.

Soon, we arrived at 221B, Lestrade put his arm around me and guided me up the stairs and plonked me on my arm chair, where I just sat, staring at the men before me. The three of them exchanged words in private and then before I could have a chance to catch up with my surroundings, it was just me and Sherlock, all alone, together.

"Yummy." I said aloud, smiling playfully. Sherlock just eyed me, looking at me suspiciously but with a grin planted on his face. He sat down in his armchair and leant forward to face me, I tried to do the same, but I fell forward sloppily which made me laugh, so I sat back up and tried to look serious.

"I knew I shouldn't have let you out of the house." I looked at him innocently, my "serious" demeanour failing miserably. He was trying to distract himself from looking at me, so he did what he always did. He spoke his thoughts aloud. "But this leads us closer to our suspect. He even drugged you again. Which means, he must've spoken to you, as the murder of Jacqueline was completely intentional it appears evident that someone had been speaking with her for a while, before the estimated time of death.. but we'll elaborate when you've sobered up. Also, Sarah arrived far later than you arrived and she drunkenly stated that you were far worse off than she and it didn't look like the effects of alcohol. Naturally, sweet Sarah does not see you as a drug taker and assumed it to be her 'beer goggles' which made it look this way. Meth as we've said, gives a feeling of invincibility but, one thing I cannot understand John, can be summed up in just two words.. Rude Boy?" He was staring at me intently.

I could feel my smile growing wider and this evidently made his smile grow. I hadn't seen this smile before, it was different, almost playful. Had I been sober, I'd admire its beauty to the extent it deserved but in the state I was in, I could think of only one thing.

"I-I'm a sucker f-for a purple shirt."


	13. Acting on Impulse

**Acting on Impulse**

I couldn't believe the words had slipped my mouth. I just watched as the magnificent Sherlock Holmes gawped at me, his smiling returning, happiness emnating and oozing from him. He seemed to be thinking, and I chose to forget about "Rude Boy" for the time being and set my focus on something-else.. I wanted, no, I _needed_ to kiss him. I had built up all this energy, I yearned for him, to be close to him somehow. I didn't want to talk seriously about my emotions, not until I'd sobered up, because I didn't want to ruin whatever this was. I just didn't want to be a fool and act on drunken, physical impulses- taking advantage of the moment. So I sat and swayed, staring at my gorgeous flatmate, wondering what on earth I could do to suppress what I was feeling. Instead my alcohol and meth-addled mind decided to proceed with the worst possible communication ever; a chat-up line.

"Shhherlock, you're l-like strawberry jam.." My jaw was beginning to ache from grinning.

He looked at me, forcing laughter back, but indicating that he was interested. His eyebrows raised and his gaze was fixed on me.

"You're v-very, verrry tasty." I let out an embarassed giggle and Sherlock continued to suppress his amusement, with his smile flickering from time to time. Then he furrowed his brow and hummed slightly, he was thinking.

"What's up Sherly?" I made my face a little more serious, cocking my head to the side, eager to know what was going on in that brilliant head of his.

"Absolutely nothing, John." For a moment he seemed disappointed and even in the state I was in, my gut wrenched at this. Then he reached out his hand and placed it on my knee, the long fingers gently holding on to it as he leaned forward to look at me closely. "But it's good, because rather than all this information cluttering my palace, I have but one thought John, one thought that I have to act upon." I could feel myself perk up, leaning forward carefully to get closer to him. He was such a bloody tease.

We moved further and further to the edge of our seats until our knees were pressed together and our faces a mere centimetres apart. His beautiful eyes scanned my face for a moment, while I probably had a vacant expression on my face (Smooth move, John). He lifted his hand from my knee up to my face, he cupped my left cheek and brought me even closer to him. Then simulataneously, we pressed our lips together. I hadn't wanted this to happen this way initially, after Sherlock's confession about me being Rose, I wanted it to be romantic and special, though I was never completely sure if it would happen, but this was brilliant. It was something that even the alcohol couldn't suppress. I could feel his cool lips on mine, pressing against them softly but with passion. It was the first kiss I'd ever had that truly felt incredible, it continued for a few spectacular, shimmering moments but was broken as Sherlock gently bit my bottom lip. Oh dear God.

I could feel my eyes widening and I began to panic, hoping that this incredibly seductive (and bloody successful) technique was not having an um- physical effect on me.. I smiled and giggled nervously, his eyes were glistening and his smile unmistakeably bright. I pushed away all worry I had had and carefully manoevured my hand so that it held his and squeezed it slightly. He giggled slightly too. Aww.

"I think it's time we both went to bed John." he stood up out of his chair, still holding my hand. He hoisted me up and I tried to keep my balance. Then I thought about what he'd just said. He thinks that we should go to bed. My mind at the time interrupted this as: "let's go to bed John".

I stuttered to utter half sentences and prefixes, being unable to construct a proper sentence. Sherlock began to chuckle "I didn't have you pegged down as the raunchy drunk type," I giggled and he gave my hand another squeeze. "C'mon _Rude boy._" he mocked. He helped guide me out of the living room and as we reached his door and began to walk past it, I stopped and I shook my head. I didn't want to be on my own tonight, I just wanted closeness and warmth. Fatigue was consuming me and I wanted to know that the man I would always need was close by. Then, instead of walking me to my bedroom he silently agreed with me. He released my hand and opened the door to his room, gesturing for me to go first, I stumbled in and he followed. He moved over to his bed, untucking the covers and plumping up the pillows to ensure ultimate comfort, I just overlooked it all idly. He used his hand to gesture towards the bed. I turned away from him as I clumsily removed my clothing until I was down to my boxers. The positivity that was being triggered by the Meth allowed me to openly show my scar tissue without embarassment, Sherlock tried his best not to look though, which even disorderly me appreciated. When I had turned to see he was looking me up and down, I realised that he was already out of his clothes and stood infront of me in silk boxers that matched the wonderful purple shirt of sex. I was in for a treat. He hopped into bed and moved the cover so I could slide in easily.

He was laid on his side, so he could face me. I copied him and we laid there, gazing at eachother. I could feel my eyes shutting forceably, and I opened them one last time so I could give him eye-contact as I spoke. I needed to say what I felt and luck with Sherlock was on my side tonight, so I took a blind leap of faith.

"I love you y'know.." I said sleepily. I tried to look at his reaction. He nuzzled towards me, putting his arms around my neck, while I put my arms around his waist, moulding ourselves together beautifully. He chuckled quietly. I knew that if he truly felt the same, it would be difficult for him to say, as sentiment really wasn't a primal instinct to him, but he suprised me.

"And I, I love you too."

With that, I dozed off in toasty-warm, nightmare-free sleep, safe and sound with Sherlock Holmes. How beautiful.


	14. Good Morning

"Good morning John." A cool voice said.

My eyes flew open. I was alarmed, my heart rate was speeding up rapidly. Then as I saw who was next to me, I immediately relaxed again. Sherlock Holmes was laid beside me, propped up on one elbow, with his head resting on his hand. His brow furrowed slightly as he looked at me inquisitively. I went to speak and then my phone went off, I smiled a little nervously and searched for it. I acted incredibly fast as I could feel Sherlock's impenetratable gaze upon me.

One new message:

"**Good morning John, don't you wish that was me next to you? x"**

I felt as though someone had thrown a large bucket of ice cold water at me. How the hell was he doing this? Was this someone's idea of a sick joke? But, how could it actually be him ? Whoever it was, knew about Moriarty. Sherlock had undoubtedly noticed my behaviour and when I turned back to him, he was looking at me, puzzled. I threw the phone to the foot of the bed. I laid back down and turned on my side, copying his position. Trying as best as I could to muster up a composed facial expression. But try as I might, I wasn't convincing enough. His eyes flickered from the phone to me.

"Someone said something to upset you."

I protested. "No, no. I'm fine, just a little dazed from last night.. which I don't remember all that much of." I laughed a little and licked my lips.

Before I could stop him, he had snatched up my phone with his long limbs. His bony fingers pressing the messages open, I could see him scanning through them in a matter of seconds. Then the phone was back at the foot of the bed and Sherlock stared at me again. I wondered how he managed to maintain eye contact for that long, his eyes surely must ache in their sockets? His face seemed hardened, his chiselled features striking out as he pursed his lips together. I leant closer towards him warily, making every movement closer as careful as possible. I didn't want to address the messages or anything to do with the deadman, so I put my best foot forward as they say. I changed the subject. Shamefully cowardly for a soldier.

"What happened last night?"

He seemed to calm down a little, but before I knew it, he lunged at me. It all happened in less than a moment, one minute I was asking a question and the next I was kissing him. I could feel his cool mouth against my own and its effect sent shockwaves of tingling through my body. I put my hand in his curly, mess of hair and played with it a little, enjoying as much of him as I could before (regrettably) ending the kiss. God I wished I hadn't.

He had taken my mind off of everything that I had said, a mere moment ago and I realised that that was exactly his intention. Oh that man. But I truthfully did want to know what had happened because slight unease was starting to cloud my head and I could feel the aftereffect of alcohol descending upon me, smothering me like that of smoke. I leaned back out of the kiss, sweeping my hand across his cheek and using my thumb to lightly trace those carved cheekbones. I then released his face and returned so that I was on my side to him, my hands tucked beneath my head. His eyes were full of wonder and I smiled a little at him. I coughed and licked my lips, beginning to take on the manor of a teacher in the way that I spoke.

"Now, I do believe you didn't answer my question Sherlock." I raised an eyebrow, smiling again at him.

He sighed a little and I looked expectantly at him.

"You went to Betty's to meet Sarah, though you were there much longer than she was. Your aftershave had worn off, while Sarah still seemed relatively fresh. You were there hours before her. Now, you wouldn't go ahead in advance because you're precise, cautious man which means something happened to you while you were there. After seeing you for myself and hearing the way Sarah spoke of your behaviour, I noticed that you were showing the same symptoms of Meth intake as before, though it was harder to notice due to the amount of alcohol you had in your system. Now such a composed military man such as yourself would not have let yourself get into that much of a state, which means that you were lured into it. You didn't seem to remember anything and so spent most of the night dancing and thrusting along to a song I believe is called, 'Rude Boy' by Rihanna and you took incredible delight in directing your movements and singing towards myself."

I didn't know what shocked me more: the fact that I had walked into a Lion's den and allowed some bastard to drug me or the fact that I had acted that way infront of Sherlock.

"Mycroft and Lestrade were with me too."

It was like he had read my thoughts. Great. So I had also been witnessed by a man who ran the British Government and the Detective Inspector of Scotland Yard. Very well done John.

I chuckled to myself, slightly embarassed. I could feel blood rushing to my cheeks and I buried my face a little.

"Behaving that way is the least of your worries John" Sherlock said with a smug grin on his face, the recollection of my behaviour clearly pleasing him. "We do have to take into account that there is a greater game being played and undoubtedly, it's grand architect would have confronted you prior to Sarah's arrival and mine. This is the second time that you have been dosed with Meth and I do believe that your addiction to it is a key pawn in their game."

He looked thoughtful, though a smiled still danced upon his face. Thoughts were thrashing through my mind too, I had to agree, it was highly likely that I was confronted in order to be induced and the time difference between my arrival and Sarah's arrival was too great for another simple attack with drugs. They must have spoken to me. I throttled my memory, trying to stir up some information and failed. I wished I, like Sherlock, had some kind of Mind Palace. But as I listened to what he had said, one phrase seemed to strike me. I didn't know where it was from, or if it was these people who had said it, but I spoke it aloud and it seemed relevant.

"Addiction is a hard thing to beat alone."

I illeterated every syllable carefully, as though I were examining it as Sherlock would. But I could extract nothing. Sherlock seemed to me watching me carfully again and I decided to leave my sanctuary and get busy, distracting myself (for now) from the mysterious powers who were using me as a puppet.

I leant over to Sherlock, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek and then forced myself out of the bed. As I walked past the foot of it to get my dressing gown and slippers my phone sounded for a second time. Sherlock was laid on his back, his long limbs spread across the bed. I picked up the phone warily and looked at yet another message, hoping beyond belief that it was Lestrade or Mycroft.

"**London Dungeons. Come and play? x**"

Oh, perhaps not. Shit.


	15. Together

**Together**

I had received that text around half an hour ago and in that time, I had made three cups of tea and eaten half a jar of strawberry jam. I was stressed. I had already slipped my gun into my back pocket. Sherlock sat in his armchair, fully suited, watching as I paced around the flat and trying to keep myself busy.

I couldn't seem to settle my nerves and as usual, my hand remained perfectly steady due to the adrenaline that pumped round my body. I couldn't decide what to do. I couldn't tell Sherlock, because quite frankly, I was scared of his reaction and the consequences that followed if I did. On the other hand, if I did tell him about all this, he may be able to soothe me and get to the bottom of this. I craved for him to use his deductive powers. Yearned for it even.

I had to go to the London Dungeons. That was fact. If I didn't, the outcomes would be severe and if this really was Moriarty, anyone I cared about would suffer the consequences. I just couldn't risk that. I had to go and Sherlock would be at his strongest if I confessed. Oh god. I stopped pacing and turned to look towards him. He looked up at me, looking thoroughly uninterested and montonous.

"Sherlock, I had a dream about someone and then they texted me, as if they knew about it.. and I keep getting texts and I'm worried, really worried. They want me to meet them at London Dungeons.." I said it fast and continued to pace as I said it. I licked my lips and paused, turning to face him again.

"Tell me who it is, John." He said, seriousness evident in his tone. He looked at me, his mouth forced into a line and his eyes blank.

"Oh it's, it's just this person.. I mean it's probably nothing to w-"

"Tell me." He looked at me, his eyes ice cold and I could feel my heart pounding against my chest.

"Moriarty."

His face was stern and shoulders tense. He didn't move from the chair, but stared into space, thinking intently. The sight of him this way made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I realised then that I need to compose myself for his sake. The soldier within me took authority and I was determined to protect the people I love from danger, especially him.

In a swift motion I retrieved my coat and phone, which were laid across the sofa. I slipped it on quickly and checked my phone. No new messages. Good.

Sherlock was looking at me again, his eyes menacing with what seemed like a mixture of excitement and anger. He stood up too, grabbing his coat. He tugged it on and wrapped his scarf around his neck. As he moved forward I put my hand against his chest, preventing him from going any further. He scowled at me.

"You're not bloody coming with me!" I protested, looking at him seriously.

He scowled again.

"Do not be so injudicious, John. You know how dangerous he is and you don't know the identity of this person for certain. You've been attacked twice, injected with drugs and you have someone who seeks to use you to their disposal. Whoever you're meeting could do anything to you and you could not possibly survive on your own. Do not act out of foolishness. Use your intelligence, I know you have some in that ordinary brain of yours."

I stepped back. Feeling a little hurt.

"My head is fine. I'm alert. The drugs haven't had as much an impact this time round. I'm a soldier, Sherlock. I can deal with this. I know how to defend myself and if it really is him, I need to find out what he wants. He's not going to tell me if I turn up with his enemy. Get in touch with Lestrade and Mycroft and warn them, but keep it between us four."

His face was still ice-cold. He didn't care that he had insulted me and he seemed to disregard what I had said, treating me like a small child. He sighed impatiently and thundered at his phone, sending vicious and abrupt texts to the assumed recipients. He slid it back into his coat pocket.

"John."

He still seemed bitter and stern but he extended his hand and I took it. I squeezed it hard, almost reassuringly, though I know this act of emotion was one Sherlock did not applaud. He let go and then we left Baker Street.

I was stood in the busy queue of the Dungeons, fiddling with the miniscule bug device that was clipped to the breast pocket inside my jacket (Lestrade had insisted). Sherlock, Mycroft and Lestrade were positioned in a perimeter around the busy tourist attraction, they were accompanied by police officers and Mycroft's guards and I felt at ease knowing they were all protected. My safety was not important. Afterall, it seemed impossible that Moriarty could have survived. He was undeniably dead but I knew that anything was possible, as Sherlock had demonstrated with his own "death".

I was grateful for my friend's belief in my claims, for all three of them trusted me with the vague information I had given. I had based my conclusion on dreams and texts, which weren't considerably reliable but the three men all listened and acted precisely. Though one was always more difficult than the others.

"Bloody Sherlock." I muttered to myself, still feeling a little hurt from his words earlier.

Someone knocked my arm abruptly and I looked up to enunciate a comment but stopped as I saw who stood next to me..

Jim Moriarty stood beside me with a mad smile plastered upon his face as his bright eyes gleamed, looking into mine. I must've made a small noise in my suprise as he laughed a little, but not loud enough to draw attention to himself.

"You won't be needing that gun John, but knowing you still think I'm dangerous. Ooooh, now that is adooorable." He said softly but strongly.

The queue moved a few paces forward so we both moved in unison. I was maintaining composure and I acted normally.

"Well, you did strike me in the head and inject me with Meth." I didn't know if he was behind all this, or he was an added drama, but my voice invited him to speak and so I would perhaps, help with the other curious case.

He smiled again, it seemed genuine and lacked his usual sadistic element. Curious.

"Oh Jawwwn. I wouldn't do that to you."

"You wouldn't do that, but you would strap bombs to my chest and threaten my bo- my bestfriend." I stopped myself from labelling Sherlock, as 1) I didn't know what exactly we were and 2) admitting the nature of mine and Sherlock's relationship could cause a lot of damage. I needed to act with some precaution- though he didn't seem to notice.

The queue shuffled again. We passed a few fake lanterns that were mounted high on the walls. We were getting nearer to the entrance.

"Ordinary Sherlock." He frowned a little and then appeared to shake himself. Turning his attention back to me. "I owed him. You have nothing to fear anymore John, I don't want to burn you. I want.. _different_ things."

I went to speak again but the queue moved rapidly and we were being ushered inside. The lights turned dark and the smell of sweat, fear and excitement permeated the air. We were crowded into such a small space, our bodys pressed awkwardly against one another. Even in the darkness I could see a slight glow from his smile. He did infact, seem different and I found myself more at ease than I thought i'd be.

After moving further into the building, he purchased ticket properly, charming the ticket lady so that she charged less for us. He returned to me and put the tickets into his trench coat's pocket. We reached the beginning of the strange attraction and plunged into the darkness... _together_.


	16. Flirt Back

**Flirt Back**

The smell of sweat, blood, dirt and fear permeated the air and made me beg for crisp, fresh air. The lighting was dim, dark with small orange-yellow flickers of light from artificial fire mounted upon the walls. I could just about make out Moriarty's face stood next to me, he scrunched up his nose in disgust of the smell, with a slight smile on his face- I guess this is like a murderous psychopath's community centre. Interesting.

I looked about and saw that we were in the part of the tour named the "Crypt." The smell became more repugnant as we walked slowly behind the scattered groups of people, looking at the displays of rotting corpses, rats and all manners of death. It seemed too horrible to be true, an exaggeration, but I knew that underground in many a cemetery, this very process was happening to strangers and loved ones alike. I looked at Moriarty again and he caught my glance, smiling up at me innocently with wide, bright eyes. I looked away quickly, out of discomfort. I was looking at him out of security and to keep alert, but when he looked at me it was not the same. He seemed more at ease, less menacing even. Which of course, made me curious to know exactly what he's up to. We carried on looking at the dummies that were festering in the filthy, dark crypt and shuffled behind a large group of tourists who were taking more time than was necessary. We came to a pause and I huffed a little, Moriarty picked up on this and winked at me.

"I really hope the rest of the tour isn't this slooow, you know how I get when I'm stuck in confined spaces with looots of people, John" he emphasised certain words and raised his volume to attract the attention of the tourists, they all looked round at different times, Moriarty looked ill, his whole face had turned as white as a sheet and he looked as though he was about to vomit. A few of the tourists whispered amongst themselves before hobbling far ahead, away from us. Colour immediately flushed back to his cheeks and he breathed a sigh of relief. It was just us and a few other smaller groups, who were nearer the entrance to the tour. I had to admit, his acting skills were pretty impressive just then and I'd have certainly felt peaky had they not picked up their pace. He sensed my admiration and seemed to shine a little brighter in the dim light.

We then moved into the next part of the tour, the "Labyrinth of Lost Souls." It was almost pitch black, with the odd jolts of white light every now and again to create an eerie atmosphere. It was bloody working. Screaming echoed through the trail and I could feel myself tensing up, I felt a little silly for being frightened but I could see Moriarty had acted the same way. As we felt our way round the turns to the doorframe to the mirrored maze, we didn't notice that it had been strangely quiet for a couple of seconds. Then "**RAHHHHH**" a computer controlled skeleton shook violently at some prison bars which thundered loudly against the walls. Quite frankly, it scared the living shit out of me. Moriarty had jumped too and grabbed my arm, a gesture that I hadn't prevented, I was actually quite glad I had someone to be foolishly scared with, though I preffered it to be a certain lanky, broody detective. Not that he'd enjoy a place as this, he'd just find fault in it via careful observation. We laughed awkwardly, trying to calm ourselves before entering the maze. He had let go of my arm and prodded me to go first. I looked at him and bit my lip slightly, he just smiled and jerked his head for me to move forward. I slowly stumbled through the maze, looking only at the floor, not letting myself be tricked by the mirrors infront of him. But the lack of lights and echoing screams were nothing compared to the man I was with. While I was carefully trying to walk, I could feel him getting closer and closer behind me, I was feeling the warmth of his breath on the back of my neck and I didn't know what to do. I then heard a quiet, breathy laugh in my ear. This continued for a few moments and then I was nearing the exit. Thank god. But as I thought I had regained mental stability after being in such close proximity with the very man who had sent my whole world crashing down, I had another little shock.. as he patted my arse as I stepped through the exit of the Labyrinth. My mind was screaming all sorts of questions at me and I honestly didn't know what to do.

We passed through another three parts of the tour, the "Plague", "The Great Fire of London" and "Surgery-Blood and Guts". I had been interested in the Surgical based one from a medical point of view, it was all humorous and very well perfromed by the staff, but truthfully I was too preoccupied with Moriarty's actions in the Labyrinth than the things the tour had actually displayed so far.

Then we reached "Torture" a section that made Moriarty positively sublime with joy. The actor put as all in dingy but lit room, which was again strewn with dummies and waxworks that depicted what he talked to us about. He called volunteers to demonstrate to us. As he showed the positively barbaric and disgusting punishments, Moriarty seemed interested but lost in the thought, as though it had triggered a good memory. I shuddered at the thought of the poor bugger who'd had his manhood ripped off by Moriarty as I'm sure that's what he was relishing in. As the demonstrater showed us more gruesome tools that used to be used, Moriarty leaned over to me. We were being shown a metal gag which could cause more damage than you'd think.

"That'd be pretty.. kinky." I could feel his breath again on my skin and his soft voice ringing in my ears. I gulped hard, feeling the same nerves as I had before. But he hadn't pulled away yet. "Maybe we could try something similar.." he said with a crooked smile on his face, leaning back to pay attention.

I could feel my cheeks going red and I pushed it back. No. No. This is Moriarty. He hurt Sherlock. Sherlock, oh Sherlock. I loved him so much. Why was he flirting with me? I didn't belong to him. I am Sherlock's. I am Sherlocked. But the warmth of his breath spread through me like wildfire and I then realised, Mycroft, Lestrade and Sherlock were hearing everything he was saying. Oh god. Bit not good.

The next part of the tour was the "Judge" we were thrusted into a room with fancy decoration, a few people were selected and put in the defendant's box. While the Judge was positioned in a seat high above. They ripped the volunteers for where they came from and came up with various imaginative reasons for being summoned at the High Court. I was chosen and so I trudged up to the box, looking down at the mixed expressions of the crowd. Moriarty was staring at me, I didn't know how to interpret the way he was looking at me because on a normal person, he looked like he yearned for something- lusted for it even. And he was staring at me. Oh dear.

"You, sir.. what is your name?" The eccentric female dressed as a male judge said, in a fake deep and booming voice which dominated the entire room.

"Uh..Um, Doctor Watson" I felt a litle nervous being thrusted into the spotlight. Moriarty was smiling a little, almost cutely.

"Ooooooh, Doctor aye?" she mocked, cackling as she went. "Well sir, what is a respectable man such as yourself doing in my courtroom? I am disgraced Sir, disgraced! What is this man's crime?" she bellowed.

"Ee's been havin' fun with 'is patients wives, me lord!" Another actor sounded, the voice again sounding eccentric but I suspected that part of it was real, as he seemed to fluent with the cockney accent.

The crowd seemed to laugh amongst themselves. I could hear Moriarty laughing but refused to tear my gaze from the actress above me.

"So you not onnnly treat your patient, but their families get an extra treat as well!" she shouted forcefully, the crowd laughing once more. "A man of gentry should not be an adulterer and so unproffessional, therefore Sir, as punishment for your lack of constraint, you will lose the very thing that you've been using as treatment!" She spat, enjoying the crowd. I commended the skills of the staff, having small imaginations of Moriarty working here. After joining him again, we proceeded onwards.

We went onwards, I barely paid attention to "Bedlam" or even the small ride on boats through the pretend sewers. The only thing I could think of when on the small boat was the hand that was gripping my knee, slowly getting higher and then letting go slowly and gently. I needed to know what he was up to and get him talking. I decided to push away all thoughts and feelings about having my closest friends in other locations listening to every word and just retaliate to the act that he was putting upon me- I had to flirt back. As the small boat ride drew to a close, I gestured for him to leave the boat first. He thanked me and stepped gracefully out of the boat, I followed and lightly brushed past him, my hand gently patting his, suprisingly soft but firm rear. He looked a little suprised and I smiled. I needed to gain the upperhand. Though I didn't realise at the time, that this merely upped his game. We proceeded onwards "Sweeney Todd" something I was actually looking forward to as the tale thoroughly interested me (and I had to admit, the Tim Burton film with Helena Bonham-Carter and Johnny Depp was pretty good.) We stopped outside a small, fake set of a shop. Lots of disgusting looking pies were on display, coated with dust and hair spilling out of the sides. An actress playing Mrs Lovett stood outside, beckoning us towards her and talking about herself and Todd, and the "delicious" pies. Moriarty leaned into me again:

"You wouldn't need to be in a pie for me to eat you up, Jawnnn"

The way he said my name sent chills down my spine. I shook myself yet again. Remembering to stick to the plan I had made. Surely, he was less dangerous if I humoured him?

We were then encouraged onward and put into a dark room with rickety wooden chairs. We took a seat and a loud audio played, it played on the senses- the sound of sharpening blades, footsteps and Todd's cold, sadistic voice. It was outstanding. I wanted to know how Sherlock would react to this, but as though he knew I was thinking about him, Moriarty caught my attention my grabbing my hand. I just held it, not fighting him off. After the atmosphere in the room growing intensely and gasps of shock and fear filling the room, it was over and we could leave this section. He still had hold of my hand, his own hands were soft but strong. He lead me forcefully, excitement in his eyes. Before going to the next section which had a new 5D laser ride, I stopped him. Others barged past us but neither of us paid any attention. He was inches away from me and I spoke so that every syllable rolled off my tongue smoothly.

"The next section seems boring.. I want to see real thrills and blood and.. lust for excitement."

I bit the corner of my lip slightly, trying my best to appear playful.

He stared at me blankly. I could feel his palms sweating slightly and the corners of his mouth jerked upwards in a cheeky smile. I couldn't deny, it was a nice sight. Every time I flirted with him or made a gesture to imply so, I was imagining that I was with Sherlock, which wasn't that hard as the two were indeed, quite alike. Moriarty was just more.. more dangerous, I suppose. He lead me again, but going in a different direction to the other tourists. Instead, he pushed through a staff only door, which lead to a web of narrow well-lit corridors that were nothing like that of the tour itself. Our fast footsteps thudded loudly as he lead me towards a different sector. Then, we bumped into an young actor who had left another door similar to the one we had entered. He stopped us, a look of irriation and confusion on his face. His hair was riddled with sweat and his gorey costume was losely-fitted around his skinny, almost gaunt frame. His eyes were dark and from what I could see of his skin, it was sickly. He looked like an addict of some kind, though the make-up masked this.

"You shouldn't be in here, please retun back to the tour or I will have to call security." He sounded almost bored, his attempt of authority was a little pathetic and Moriarty sensed his advantage and stepped forward, releasing my hand.

"Do you know who I am?" Moriarty sounded sinister, yet inviting. A tone of his that was not unfamiliar.

The young man tried to look at him more closely, then his already expressionless eyes grew wider. He gulped and shifted his stance a little. Moriarty smiled toothily. It was scary, but impressive all the same.

"Jim Moriarty. Hiii!" Moriarty said. De Ja Vu.

He raised his eyebrows and jerked his head again, silently commanding the poor young man. He turned around and lead us to the door that he had just emerged from. He kept glancing behind him out of fear of the man infront of opened the door for us and Moriarty glared at the man, forcing him to look away. He grabbed my hand again and yanked me through the door. He had chosen the section I thought he would...


	17. Saucy Jacky

**Saucy Jacky**

Background noises of 19th century London echoed in the room we stood in. It was dark and candle-lit, with two projectors beaming two silhouttes into two seperate windows. Both were female. The first silhoutte began to move as us onlookers looked up at it. She was combing through her hair repeatedly, the room seemed to be building tension and then another silhoutte appeared, a taller, stockier man with a top hat who attacked her. The angry snarls filled the room and bounced off the walls, I could feel myself tensing. We watched in horror as a knife was drawn and put to her throat and she fell out of sight. _Jack the Ripper _was a cruel bastard.

Moriarty seemed to be watching my reaction to the horrible scene, his grip on my hand had loosened, his thumb lightly stroking mine. He leaned into me as a voice began to talk about the first victim of the infamous Ripper- Mary Ann Nichols.

"You wanted thrill and lust, John" he whispered in my ear, a little seductively putting extra emphasis on lust.

I licked my lips and nodded. He giggled slightly. The voice in the background continued, as did he.

"It's disgusting what he did, but the excitement that comes when hunting your prey John, it snuffs out your conscience.. blinds it. Makes the thrill of the chase so... sexy."

"And after?" I was curious as to how homicidal, dangerous minds worked and evidently, the Ripper and Moriarty were quite similar.

"The adrenaline is enough to encourage you to carry on, what's life without danger?" His eyes twinkled a little in the darkness, he was relishing in a memory again and i pushed aside any guesses as to the memory. But then his eyes changed, they looked sad even, which I thought was a trick because of the lighting. But he turned and as light fell a little more upon his face I could see the furrowed brow, the slight frown and sad eyes. He leaned in to continue but didn't look at me this time.

"killing never quenches the thrill, it ensnares you and traps you.. leaving you feeling empty, yearning for a taste of pure lust, to feel... _human _again"

I was a little suprised. Moriarty wanted to be human? I couldn't imagine him as a normal man, one who didn't ruin lives and arrange to meet at horror-based attractions. But that lead me to question my part in his thoughts, did he believe I could make him human?

We were told to go onwards, where a gaunt londoner (an actor) unveiled a dummy of Mary Jane Kelly, he spoke emotionally of the mutilations and who he thought "dun it". Blaming it on a range of suspects. Telling us of the "Saucy Jacky" Postcard and "Dear Boss" letter that were allegedly sent by the ripper himself. I wondered to myself if they used Graphology in the 1880's and if it would have told them anything about the Ripper. Sherlock would know. This dark and bloody section was then at an end and I asked Moriarty if we could sneak out as I felt a little sick, needing the cold London air.

"Gift Shop first, John." He smiled, tugging on my hand again and leading to another Staff door. He seemed to lead the way to the shop without any trouble, making me question how easily he was able to navigate as there were a web of corridors. He'd done this before maybe?

We entered the gift shop, which sold everything from severed hand toys to customisable London Dungeons t-shirts. Moriarty let go of my hand, looking about him excitedly as though he was a child. He retrieved a bottle of blood-orange flavoured drink from a large fridge by the exit. I was only just keeping up with him as he flitted gracefully past other shoppers and I limped after him, my leg had started aching a little. Seeing the confectionery in shape of body parts and dummies too, made me think of the severed limbs and body parts that I would find strewn across the kitchen. It seemed wrong that place like this would remind me of the person I loved, but Sherlock was not an ordinary man and I loved that.

I watched as Moriarty waited impatiently in line, his hands full of random objects. He piled them up on the cashier's desk, causing the employee to raise her eyebrows a little in suprise. I wondered what he had found that could be worth spending lots of money on. A couple of minutes later, he returned to me. Two London Dungeon bags in his right-hand and his other free, he took mine automatically and we left, heading out into the busy streets of London.

The cool air drifted down to my lungs pleasantly, releasing me of the hot, stuffy air that was held inside the Dungeons. We were walking away from the building we had left and it dawned on me that I had agreed to go only to the London Dungeons and nowhere-else. This agreement was not made with Moriarty, but with the Holmes brothers who had insisted that one trip with the psychopathic killer was quite enough. I paused abruptly, dropping his hand and bending over a little, my hands braced on my knees and head down. It looked like I was having pain in my leg, which was no myth- plus it bought me some time to think about whether to stay strictly within the perimeter that my friends' had secured or go somewhere with him, if he had that in mind of course.

Moriarty looked a little concerned, his eyebrows drawn together. I stood back up stiffly and smiled a little, feeling uncomfortable.

"You alright?" he said, cocking an eyebrow.

Time to see if this strange day with him was going to end here or continue.

"Yeah, yeah.. I'm fine. Fine. Leg's just playing up a bit, that's all. I should probably get home, rest it for a bit."

He nodded, then looked at me, his eyes shining playfully. "Or, you could get some coffee with me and get some rest after."

He didn't seem threatening but there was something about the tone that I didn't trust. It would be logical to go with him and I wouldn't be breaking my word to the Holmes' boys. I could also find out a little bit more information from him. Everybody wins.

**AN: Thank-you again for the reviews, alerts and favourites! Please keep reviewing, your opinions are really appreciated as always! :)**


	18. Enjoyable

**Enjoyable**

We went into the tiny coffee shop and found a table by the wall, he sat so he was nearer the exit and i took my place opposite him. A jolly waiter bobbed over to us with our coffee orders, we thanked him politely. Moriarty leaned forward on the table, his expression unreadable. i took a small sip of my coffee and leaned forward a little too, at a distance that was both safe and comfortable. "Stayin' Alive" by the BeeGee's began to play and Moriarty sighed, retrieving his phone and pulling it out lazily. He rolled his eyes at the phone before answering.

"Yes of course it is, what do you want? ... No, no, you do the job I told you to do. I don't care if it's being investigated. You find him and then you contact me, because if you don't I will.. Yes, yes exactly. Now, get to it." He ended the call, thrusting it back into his pocket.

"Spot of bother?" I asked, sipping at my coffee again.

He chuckled a littled, not touching his.

"More of a speck. But he'll do it, he's ordinary.. I can't leave a bitter ex-soldier running around causing a mess attacking and threatening you, that used to be my job." He smiled broadly.

His sadistic nature made me feel a little uneasy but I pushed it away. "You're going after the man who attacked me?"

"And threatened you, as well as killing someone. I have people everywhere John and Daddy's had enough nowww...I heard the conversation he had with you at Betty's, I had my people bug the place after a tip off." He said it as though it were as normal as getting someone to buy some milk. (Which was abnormal at 221B, Sherlock was so bloody lazy)

"I can't even remember talking to anyone.. but wait, you're a consulting criminal so why would thi-"

"Let's just say... _jealousy_, John. If anyone is to hurt anyone in my little world, it is under my command, not some angsty soldier boy. Plus, i'm disappointed that Sherlock_ still _treats you as a pet. You're wasted on him.."

I could feel myself getting riled up. I am not Sherlock's pet. I also felt sorry for anyone near Sherlock at the moment, hearing this wouldn't do well for the broody detective.

"But, i'll stop all of this darling don't worry your pretty, little head." His phone made another tone and he pulled it out, scanning the screen quickly.

"Well today has been very... enjoyable. I've got you a little present, as I know you love to wear them. Now goodbye, Doctor Watson." He said my name teasingly, biting his lower lip as he stood up. He pulled me roughly towards him again so he could whisper in my ear.

"I'll be in touch and we'll do something even more.. enjoyable." He spoke every word precisely, so that his warmth spread through my body, making my eyes go wide and gulp. He winked and left the coffee shop, with only one bag. Sat opposite me was the other bag. I raised my hand slowly to reach over the small table and retrieve it but a hand darted there first and grabbed it. I immediately went to argue and apprehend the "thief" but all I could see when I looked upwards was Mycroft holding the bag above me, looking at it curiously and skeptically before turning his gaze to me. Sherlock and Lestrade were stood a little behind him, Mycroft sat where Moriarty had done and Lestrade perched next to him. Sherlock, who had a glum look on his face seemed to reluctantly take a seat next to me. Lestrade pouted a little, gazing at Mycroft curiously... almost lovingly. They began to tell me of their own activities and actions while I was with the mysterious Moriarty and eventually it got to the point where we spoke about the dialogue exchange. Great.

"He didn't really say much." I stated a little innocently, trying to push aside to the knowledge that they would have heard absolutely everything that was said. None of it was of great use, but it certainly was bloody embarassing. (Especially as I had responded.)

Mycroft raised his eyebrow, looking slightly condescending. "Well, we know what our greatest weapon against him is, that's for certain." He then smiled powerfully, chuckling to himself again. Lestrade mirrored him, his own tanned face contorting into a chuckle. Sherlock still looked glum.

"Odd situations we keep finding you in, eh John?" Lestrade jibed.

I could feel myself going a little red. Nodding awkwardly as the two men opposite giggled to themselves like school-children.

"_You want thrill and lust, John." _Lestrade quoted, giggling to himself. Mycroft smirking.

"Oh do cheer up, brother." he looked impatient, catching Sherlock's cold glare. He then put on a sarcastic smile. "Our dear John appears to have all the protection in the world and though I do not trust Moriarty by any stretch, the more people on John's side the better."

He seemed to be telling him, rather than reassuring him. Sherlock gave in, sighing and nodding at his brother. Under the table I could feel a hand taking mine. I looked down briefly to see Sherlock's long fingers entangling with mine. It sent sparks of warmth thr ugh my body.

"So, what do we do now?"

"We continue to try understand Moriarty, we find out exactly what's going on with your attackers and their intentions and we solve the case." Mycroft said, matter-of-factly.

"The only person who'll get close enough to understanding Moriarty is John." Lestrade winked at me. Git.

I finally swallowed my pride and asked the question that was on my mind. "How much of what was said.. did you _actually_ hear?"

"Well, I swore I heard him say something about being kinky.. but these two didn't hear it. And something about eating you up?" Lestrade first furrowed his brow in thought and then his face changed again into the familiar cheeky grin.

I could feel my ears going red as well as my face, causing them to laugh again. Even Sherlock chuckled a little. His hand squeezing mine a little too tightly.

"Yeah.. he um.. he did mention being kinky." I laughed along to shake of the embarassment.

"I knew it!"

I laughed at the happiness on the Chief Inspector's face. He was a teenage boy at heart.

"Anyway, we all best be off. I'll give you two a lift back to Baker Street. Mycroft?" Lestrade's eyes seemed to shimmer upon addressing Mycroft.

He cocked an eyebrow, smiling slightly at him. I'd say almost flirty but it's Mycroft..

Soon enough we were back at Baker Street and I was about to hear why Sherlock didn't find this day quite so _enjoyable._


	19. Wants and Needs

**Wants and needs**

As soon as our feet had padded past the threshold of 221B, Sherlock began pacing, throwing off his coat, scarf and even shoes at mid-pace. The shoes were hurled in my direction, causing me to rapidly duck, feeling the air rush past my head as one shoe flew past. I looked at him indignantly, for christ sake, did Moriarty bother him that much?

Wait no. That was stupid. Of course he did. He loathed him. He tried smearing his name, killing the people he cared about and now he was up to something. I felt a sudden shock of guilt trickle through my body, Sherlock had opened up to me finally about his feelings and he had probably made deductions of the behaviour made in the London Dungeons. It was only a little flirting, to merely gain insight into Moriarty. Who still baffled me. I mean, what psychopath flirts and buys people presents with an innocent look upon them? That was stupid again of course he would, that's exactly the sort of thing he'd do. Oh and another bloody stupid thing, I had forgotten Mycroft had taken the bag, so I couldn't even see what he had purchased or let Sherlock inspect it. I need to work on my observational skills, for definite.

In this few seconds of thought, Sherlock had fallen into his designated chair in a huff. I snapped myself out of my head and into the room with the madman, I slumped down in my chair too. My leg aching. Sherlock was leant back, eyes closed, his arms on either armrest and legs far apart.. he was tired, very tired. The dark circles had appeared underneath his eyes. I vowed to get him to sleep tonight, to forget about the constant action that seemed to have bombarded us. But before I addressed the important matters, I decided to beat around the bush as it were. As a different topic certainly had grabbed my attention.

"Sherlock?"

It took a couple of seconds before he answered a sleepy "mm?" His eyes still firmly pressed shut. A montonous look upon his face.

"Did you see the way Lestrade was acting towards Mycroft?" I could feel my lips jerking upwards a little in a smile, the idea of that couple was a little peculiar but sweet all the same. I saw the same emotion dance upon Sherlock's face briefly.

"Well they have been seeing each other for God knows how many months."

I stirred a little, feeling confused. Why had they not told me? I had grown close to both of them and both knew I was trustworthy. Mycroft wouldn't tell Sherlock about his private life other than to compete and Lestrade never seemed to interest Sherlock in any such sense. Lestrade must have said something to him. But that would mean that Lestrade had known months ago about Sherlock?

And as per usual, this extra-ordinary man read my thoughts.

"I observed it John, they've been secretive about the whole thing. Finally they've actually made it official. And Lestrade didn't know about me. I promise you."

I felt myself relax a little, feeling thoroughly relieved. But I knew I had to talk about Moriarty and the Dungeons to Sherlock. Sherlock stood up and slumped his way into the kitchen, I followed him, making sure his fatigue would not cause him any damage. He didn't retrieve anything from the kitchen, he just leant on the counter. I decided, that this moment of stillness was opportune to address the topic I felt I needed to discuss.

"Sherlock, in the Dungeons, Moriarty was a little.. flirty, shall we say. And I decided it might be a good course of action to throw him off guard by responding, I thought it might get him to talk.. Because he seemed so genuine and yet so danger-"

Sherlock had somehow leapt forward and managed to push me up against the world, looking down on me with a tired face and excited eyes. One hand was on my chest, keeping me again the wall. The other, was pressed firmly agains the wall, maintaining his stance.

"I _hated _him flirting with you. It made me feel.. _jealous_. And you responding, though admirable, makes me need to tell you something. So trust me when I say this John.." He was whispering a few inches away from my face. The way he was talking, with such dominance and precision was incredibly, insanely sexy. I was suddenly aware of the effect this was having on my body and I bit my lip, closing my eyes quickly.

"You.. are _mine."_ he growled.

Oh good lord.

His lips crashed against mine, in a ragged and exciting kiss. He kept me pushed against the wall. He lowered the hand from my chest onto my side, sliding down further until he had reached my arse, squeezing it slightly. I had my arms crossed over at the top of his back, forcing him against me. I stole the hot kisses greedily, not allowing him to come up for air. His hands then moved from my arse and the wall to explore the rest of my physique, while my own arms stayed firmly at his back, I did not trust myself in such.. heated circumstances.

We began kissing and moving in the dark slowly, towards Sherlock's bedroom. He kicked the door open, pulling me roughly in. He ripped off my shirt and I did the same. His hands hovered momentarily over my trousers, teasing me. The blinds were drawn so the room was very dark, but the slight light that spilled on his carved phsyique was breath-taking. Soon enough we were both in our boxers and he pushed me onto the bed. And despite what I knew I wanted as well as he, I knew what I needed to do and what he needed me to do. As Sherlock fell on top of me, allowing me those brilliant, beautiful lips to meet my own again, I rolled him over a little, so he was suddenly under the covers, but before he could entice me under with his grip, I pulled away. Smiling. He looked at me confused, one might say a little hurt. That look single-handedly tugged at my heart strings. I got up off of the bed.

I walked towards the door, Sherlock looked frightened and I felt a pang at my heart yet again. I paused momentarily. I looked out of the room. This was were I had always desired to be and I had never felt so happy to be able to close a door. I closed Sherlock's door and returned to him. He looked suprised at my return, but his face was strained with tiredness so the look dispersed instantly. He scooted further up the bed and I climbed in. He cuddled close to me, his head laid against my bare chest and my arm draped protectively and warmly across his shoulder. After a few peaceful moments, Sherlock looked up at me, eyes wide and face a little weary.

"I thought you were going to leave, John. I thought that the thrill and lust I was trying to give you didn't match what Moriarty described. I thought that he had stolen you..." his tired voice trailed off, his eyes looked slightly watery. I put a hand on his cheek and smiled at the beautiful man.

"You're the only person I will ever desire. I am yours and you are mine. And I will never, ever leave you." I was serious and I watched as the light returned to his eyes and a smile spread across his face. He clutched me tightly and I squeezed him comfortingly.

"You don't know how much I need you, John Watson."

I laughed.

"Yes I do.. and you will always have me. So I'm making sure you get the other thing you need."

"What?"

"A good nights sleep."

I cuddled him closer to me, the pleasant warmth between us was consuming and lovely. The feeling that was existing between us was better than any feeling I'd ever felt before. Even the Meth hadn't reached a high such as this. Because Sherlock was my drug, my flatmate, my friend... _mine_. And knowing he was getting the sleep he needed was more satisfying than the event that could have occured instead. Because that was how much he meant to me, he went beyond the bindings of the sexual and the physical and exposed me to this strength of emotion and care that I'd never felt before. I would ensure he got what he needed, not just what he wanted.

"I love you." he said finally.

"I love you too."

And with that, we drifted off into bliss.


	20. Magic

**Magic**

It had been a week since that day. The day where Sherlock and I had declared our love soberly and declared that we belonged to one another. That also happened to be the day that the meant-to-be-dead Moriarty had taken me on a date (if that was the right word) to the London Dungeons. And in a short period before that, someone had injected two lots of Meth into me and I was approached by some unknown army man with a grudge. Oh and I had danced to Rihanna and Sherlock told me I was his Rose, shortly after returning from the grave. You see, that may sound a little odd. But this chain of strange and slightly unfortunate events were the sort of occurences that followed my strange friend and after being with the man for so long, you welcome such occurences as if they were your average activity. And honestly, anything could happen and I would be okay, just knowing that I had Sherlock to face it with me.

The week inbetween today and that day was less interesting. There had been roughly three cases. Two of which were just drug-based killings, which Sherlock called "dull" and simply stated every fact as though we should all have guessed it. The other proved to be slightly more interesting and held his attention for a couple of days, but I was not graced with the details as I had been looking for jobs. I had expressed an interest in the cases but Sherlock's linear thoughts were too hard to follow so I gave up in the end. In that fairly monotonous week, we had only seen each other briefly each night, when Sherlock would crawl into my bed after he had been out for hours on end. But tonight we would see each other.

I had been out most of the day searching for jobs. I had also visited Harry and I was having a refreshingly good time with her, until she attempted to swig some Vodka when I wasn't looking and then it all kicked off. She started screeching about our parents, our childhood and how life was just so "shit." Every time she gets like this I have to remind myself to take it with a pinch of salt. The painful words that she spat at me were utterly meaningless. All of her misfortunes were of her own accord and God knows how many times I have tried to help her across the years. In the end, I just give up and leave her to drown her sorrows in the booze.

As soon as I set foot in 221B, I felt my spirits lift. Mrs Hudson was in the kitchen, doing her best to keep calm as she disgarded random limbs and body parts.. I walked over to her, giving her a quick hug and kiss on the cheek. Then I proceeded to the kettle, filling it with water and retrieving some mugs. I ran up to my room quickly, kicking off my shoes and throwing off my coat before returning back to the kitchen.

"Tea, Mrs Hudson?" I asked politely, still a little pissy after the visit with Harry but very happy to be home.

"Oh no, dear. It's a bit late for me" She smiled, patting me on the arm before going downstairs. I heard her door lock, meaning that she was going to bed. Sherlock and I would be alone together tonight. Just as I was thinking about him, the curly-haired man burst into the living room, his face smeared with blood and his hair thick with it. He was carrying a large flagpole and stood upright as he realised I was looking at him, my mouth wide open.

"Eventful day?" I laughed, forcing myself to turn back to the tea I was brewing. I had begun making Sherlock a cup before he had even gotten home.

His small laughter rumbled a bit, making me smile. He then mumbled something about a shower and disappeared. I took both mugs into the living room, I set them both on the table infront of the sofa. I slumped down on the right-hand side, one arm with the remote resting on the arm rest, I laid back a little, putting one leg further up on the sofa than the other. I was tired and this position was perfect to fall asleep to, but I pushed the tiredness back as the longing for Sherlock far outweighed the need for sleep. In his short absence, I flicked through the channels, there were various crime dramas on which I would have put on- if Sherlock wasn't guranteed to deduce the fault in every detail. Instead I decided to flick through the film channels, they ranged from "17 again" to "The Exorcist." After five minutes that I had spent endlessly searching for a film and sipping slowly at my tea, Sherlock returned to me. His hair slightly damp, his skin soft and gleaming. He was wearing purple pyjama bottoms, a tshirt and his favourite blue dressing gown. He looked warm and emaculate. He turned off the main light and crashed down next to me, stretching out all of his limbs before crossing his legs and turning slightly, so he was facing me. He also retrieved his mug of tea and smiled at me. He laid out his free hand and I took it, our fingers intertwining, both of us smiling like idiots as we turned to look at the television. I decided to have a mutual approach to the film of choice.

"Blood Diamond?" I asked, curious as I read the summary of the film.

"Boring."

"The Exorcist?"

"Old."

"Harry Potter?" I was genuinely intrigued as to the response it would get from my strange flatmate, I didn't see how he could slate it. It was afterall, a phenomenal book and film series.

"Hmm.. which one?" He raised an eyebrow.

"Um.. Philosopher's Stone."

"Yes."

I put it on, luckily it had just started. We finished our tea quickly and disgarded the mugs onto the small table. Sherlock lunged infront of me to grab the remote, turning the volume down so we could talk as well as watch the film. He still had hold of my hand, his thumb stroking gently. It felt nice, relaxing even. I yanked it so he fell sidewards into me. He snuggled up so that his head was on my chest, his legs curled up like a child. I had my hand locked in his and an arm draped over his shoulder. It felt wonderful. I had missed him a lot this past week.

"Magic" he mused "it's just a different word for science."

"Is that why you like it? Because it's linked with um.. science?" I didn't see the actual connection Harry Potter had to science but I was always interested in what Sherlock had to say- especially when he suprised me.

"No, I'd just love to be wizard." he said seriously.

I chuckled heartily, his head bobbing a little on my chest.

"I thought you wanted to be a pirate when you were younger?"

"Yes, I did. But now I'm older, I wouldn't mind being a wizard."

I laughed again, he was such a brilliantly odd man. He fascinated me.

His head then swivelled upwards to look at me, a grin etched upon his face. His pupils dilated, the blue/green bright and thoughtful. He stretched upwards a little, so I met him halfway. Each of our faces upside down to the other but still able to press our lips together. I loved kissing Sherlock Holmes. I pulled back with a smile on my face and he did the same, but he changed his position so that he was sat upright and next to me. He turned to me again, taking both of my hands this time.

"You saw your sister today didn't you?" He seemed genuinely interested, how he had managed to deduce that, God knows, but I appreciated his concern.

"Yeah I did."

"She was drunk."

"As ever."

He paused for a few moments, deep in thought. Then he returned back to reality and smiled at me.

"Would you like a hug?" He stretched out his arms invitingly and I beamed. Sherlock's hugs were cosier than you'd think, and the warmth of his body made everything better.

"You bet." I embraced him, his gorgeous scent floating through my nostrils. His hug was the perfect medicine and eventually, we parted. Returning back to the previous position, though this time, he had his arm on the top of the sofa, just behind my head. It was comforting and prompted talking, which I wasn't going to decline.

"How is it, you always know the right time for a hug?" I laughed.

"Magic." he jested, giggling a little.

I went to speak again but my phone went off in my pocket, I slid it out quickly and saw that I had a new message. It read:

"**I thought I'd drop you some good news, my adooorable Jawn. Your attacker and his associates have been.. dealt with. As payment, we're going for dinner tomorrow night. I'll pick you up. Wear something sexy. Or else. Jim x"**

I handed the phone to Sherlock who had been waiting patiently. He scanned through the text in milliseconds and clenched his fists. His knuckles white. I took the phone out of his tight grip and held his hand again, forcing him to look at me. He looked annoyed.

"Sherlock, calm down." I said cooly, squeezing his hand re-assuringly.

"He wants to date my..my.." he seemed to be searching for the appropriate word, which was good as I hadn't even been able to do that. "my lover." He said it in a way that sent shivers down my spine, his tone just radiated sexual tension and I pushed back all thoughts, keeping my mind focused on calming him down.

"Exactly, _your _lover. If we just humour him Sherlock, he'll have no reason to cause harm."

"He's a fool."

"Yes, Sherlock, he is. He's just some bored psychopath who thinks he can get whatever he wa-"

"No John, he's a fool because you don't need to wear something sexy to be sexy."

He smiled at me brilliantly. I kissed him again, deeply and passionately. We broke off after a while, both feeling much better.

"Plus that loony who attacked me has been apprehended which is good eh?"

Sherlock muttered an "mhm" texting people on his own phone briefly. Then he returned his gaze to me, his eyes full of desire.

"John, I think we should stop thinking about all of this and instead embrace the theme of this film."

I raised an eyebrow quizically.

"Well let's do some magic of our own."

He pounced on me.

And we stayed like that, kissing and pinning one another down playfully for hours. Forgetting all of the troubles we had been facing and casting them aside to worry about tomorrow. We focused entirely on each other, letting our love consume us.

How magical.


	21. Lucky Man

**Lucky Man**

The alarm on my phone sounded, telling me that it had reached half past seven. Sherlock was laying on my bed, flat on his stomach, his feet crossed in the air and his head propped up in one hand. He looked thoughtful. His eyes scanning my body's every detail.

"Sherlock, I said to think of something I can wear, not study my bloody anatomy!" I said impatiently, keen to get this over with.

He smiled cheekily, his eyes purposely looking my body over. I didn't understand what the fuss was about, I was stood in some new black Calvin Klein boxers, I wasn't stark bloody naked! I had just had a shower and gave my stubble another shave, Sherlock had chosen those to wear, which so far was the only thing he had helped me with.

"Sherlock!" I said in a louder volume, catching his attention. I put my hands on my hips, waiting for a response.

He smirked, "I'd say sorry..." he bit his lip and looked me up and down again. "But I'd be lying."

I couldn't help but smile back at him. "Riiight..yeah. Now what should I wear?"

"Something sexy."

"That's not very definitive."

He cocked a sarcastic eyebrow, closely resembling his brother. He showed no sign of offering any help or even moving, so I sighed and turned towards my wardrobe, my back to him. I pulled open the doors to it and saw my neat array of jumpers. I put a hand in, seeking a brand new navy blue one that seemed less casual than my usual attire.

"No jumpers, John."

I looked over my shoulder. "Why not?" I asked incredulously. I loved my jumpers.

"James Moriarty is a materialistic show-off. His idea of 'sexy' is a well tailored suit from an expensive designer." he said flatly.

I couldn't argue, that was a sound explanation (even though to me, my jumpers were the only garments that could even slightly flatter me).

"You look good in everything, not just knitwear John." He had read my mind. "Look to the far left-hand side, you'll find your clothing for tonight there."

This made me very curious. So as instructed, I looked to the far left of my wardrobe. There was a suit hanging there, obscured by a collection of various jeans and trousers. I pulled it out, confused by it. I had never seen it before. As I retrieved it delicately, I turned to face back towards Sherlock, closing the wardrobe doors behind me.

The suit was well tailored, the material felt nice and shimmered in the light. It was dark grey colour, tailored to fit in a slim style. The pocket had a black handkerchief folded neatly out of it. Underneath the suit was a crisp white shirt and a black tie fastened loosely around the coat hanger. I had to admit, it was very nice and incredibly fashionable to say the least.

I was confused as to who had purchased it though, Sherlock perhaps? He knew about it, so he obviously had something to do with it, but I doubt he purchased it himself, Mycroft practically groomed him. Ahh, Mycroft. Regardless of who purchased it, I wasn't sure how I felt about having clothes bought for me without my say (or about how they managed to get a perfectly tailored suit without me giving them my measurements, gits). I saw the edge of a price tag slip out from underneath the jacket and I looked at it, my brow furrowing. I could see Sherlock shifting slightly in my peripheral vision. The label read:

"**Gieves & Hawkes**

**NO1 Savile Row, London**

**£2,500.00**"

My mouth fell open in shock. A suit from Savile Row? The best tailorers in the world. For two and a half grand... what the bloody hell?

"Savile Row?" I exclaimed, unable to believe how ridiculous this was. I was annoyed at the Holmes brothers for being so silly.

"...John" Sherlock moved slowly off of the bed, looking cautious.

"What the fuck Sherlock? Two and a half grand for a bloody suit?"

"No, two grand. Mycroft got it cheaper." He said it as though this were your average mates-rates kind of deal, as if Mycroft didn't have some massive power-play.

I clenched my fist a little, not feeling right about all of this. Sherlock came closer, taking my hand and unclenching it, entangling his fingers with my own and squeezing gently. I could feel my anger dispersing at his touch.

"Moriarty needs to see the effort you've gone to in order to impress. It's part of the plan!" he reassured me, his voice sweet and gentle. He kissed my head lightly. "Now go do your hair and get dressed."

I sighed, lying the suit neatly on the bed. Sherlock left me to get into it and arrange myself. I took some hair product from a side and looked into the mirror, I combed it and parted it neatly, noticing how it had gotten a lot longer. The increased length of it really made the sandy-blonde colour stand out, which enhanced my appearance. Which was actually quite refreshing as for once, I felt good about myself.

I then slipped the suit on after applying some expensive aftershave, it was some present from Harry that I hadn't gotten around to using since the many christmasses ago when she had given it to me. It smelt fresh and slightly sweet in a pleasant, masculine kind-of way.

Finally, I buttoned the suit and the cuffs, adjusting the black tie neatly. I got my polished black brogues from the bottom of my wardrobe. I slipped them on, quickly grabbing my phone, keys and gun. I concealed the firearm where I usually did and I checked the time. Fifty-eight minutes past seven. I switched off my bedroom light and closed the door.

I drifted into the living room gracefully, I felt incredibly comfortable and confident. Mrs Hudson was dusting the bookshelf, chatting away to a bored-looking Sherlock who was stationed in his chair. They both stopped in their tracks and swivelled their heads slowly, to turn to look at me.

I will never forget the look on Sherlock's face. He looked so shocked, so delighted, so... aroused. He looked adorable and sexy at the same time and his eyes were wide with desire.

"John, you look so very, very handsome!" Mrs Hudson cooed, giving me a hug and pinching my cheek a little. She liked to mother "her boys". She then noticed the unbroken eyecontact between me and Sherlock and casted several confused looks between us, before a light-bulb seemed to ignite in her head.

"Fuck. Me. You look.. delicious." Sherlock just managed to get his words out, his eyes were literally burning with desire and I could feel my cheeks flush a little pink.

Mrs Hudson looked positively delighted, incredibly happy that the penny had finally dropped. "Finally!" she exclaimed, beaming at us both. We chuckled, though Sherlock sounded a little breathy which I had to try and ignore. Mrs Hudson pulled me into another hug before rushing downstairs to answer the door. I don't think Sherlock and I had even acknowledged that the door had been knocked. We just stared at each other, our eyes fixated. I wanted him so badly that every fibre of my being was screaming at me to pounce on him, but I couldn't. I had to stay focus and push away my um.. hormones. It was good that I did too, as Lestrade and Mycroft appeared at the doorway and paused in suprise. Lestrade wolf-whistled and I winked at him.

"Thanks for the suit Mycroft, you really shouldn't have." I said smiling at him.

"I think speak for all three of us, when I say it was an absolute pleasure."

All three men were staring at me simultaenously. Lestrade nodded in agreement with Mycroft and Sherlock darted a strange look at Mycroft, which caused Mycroft to roll his eyes. A jealous look?

My phone buzzed in my pocket, distracting me from those three. They began chatting, sitting themselves down. I pulled out the device and saw that it was now five past eight. There was a message that read:

"**I'm outside, so get your sexy arse here now! JM x**"

I sighed a little, straightening my posture before bidding farewell. My gaze lingered on Sherlock for the longest. I gave Mrs Hudson a kiss on the cheek and proceeded downstairs. I was keeping positive thinking of all the people I cared for up in 221B at that moment. I smiled widely.

And just before I closed the door, I could've sworn I heard the words "You're a lucky man, Sherlock Holmes." I laughed a little and closed the door.

I could see a black Audi q8 2012 and knew that it would be Moriarty. He was certainly a flashy man. And probably not just flashy in a material kind of way, if you know what I mean. The passenger seat at the back opened and Moriarty was leant across, having opened it. He watched me intently as I walked towards him, I jumped into the seat next to him and shut the car door.

The car pulled away from the curb and I looked at Moriarty. His face was like a child's in a sweetshop.

"I'm _very_ lucky man tonight." he said, smiling his cheshire-cat sized smile which was slightly scary.

I then found myself wondering how tonight would end, fantasizing about what would happen when I return to Sherlock tonight, because if what I had in mind happened.. I'd be the lucky man.


	22. Reservation Names

**Reservation Names**

Within ten minutes, Moriarty and I were stood outside a lavish, bright restuarant, watching as the car left. Leaving us completely alone. He looked at me expectantly, snapping me out of my thoughts.

We entered the already open doors and stood waiting for a waiter. I looked around the place. It was dimly lit, with most tables having several candles arranged neatly, giving the place a warm but expnsive vibe.

I looked at the sort of people that were in here. Many elder, middle-class women appeared to be dinight tonight, laden with pearls and jewels. Their dresses all looking similar and embellished in a range of colours. I also noticed a few young couples and business men. From the clearly wealthy array of people, I assumed that we were in Chelsea, the higher-classed and grommed part of London.

Moriarty looked very well grooomed tonight too. His suit was a dark blue, designer and very well tailored. It fit him in all the right places. His hair was styled with a bit of volume, it bounced a little, looking a little teddy boy-ish. His own scent was very strong, slightly spicy even but very nice. He looked impecable, to say the least, I had to admit.

Finally a young waitress came to us, her head held high and chest pertrouded as an attempt to attract us to her. Moriarty looked at her as if she were vermin, which made her stiffen up, losing her facade. Before Sherlock, I would probably have found her attractive. She was curvacious but slim and had thick blonde locks styled neatly into a curly ponytail. She was attractive and she knew it. That explained why Moriarty's lack of interest had made her recoil. She looked at me instead, searching for some kind of attention, smiling bright at me.

"Do you have a reservation?" She asked, her white, perfect smile unfaltering.

"Yes. In the name of intoxiqué." He said, sounding and looking incredibly bored. He then looked at me and his lips stretched upwards in a dark smile. I didn't understand the French, but I knew it would have some significance. I wished Sherlock was here to translate it and make deductions. I however, would just have to continue cluelessly.

The girl shuddered a little, Moriarty seemed to intimidate her. She coughed awkwardly to cover up her small noise of fear and looked down at the list before her.

"Yes, I have it. Follow me, sirs." She said monotonously.

She took two menus and lead us to a cosy table nearer the back of the restuarant. She cast the odd paranoid look over her shoulder as Moriarty closely shadowed her.

We arrived at the small table and she placed a menu on each seat placement. She then muttered something about coming back soon. Moriarty glided round to pull out my chair, I smiled akwardly and sat down. I opened the menu curiously, with genuine desire to know what the recommended dish was at this establishment. Maybe I ough to re-think my priorities.. I was on a dinner date with the world's most dangerous criminal psychopath and I'm worrying about how to sustain my apetite. Mycroft would be proud, ha-ha.

Moriarty opened his menu but didn't glance down. He kept his eyes levelled on me, smiling and staring.

Another waiter appeared, something about him seemed vaguely familiar and this worried me. Who was he?

"May I get you _fine _gentlemen a drink?" his voice was husk and I remembered it, though I couldn't place where I'd heard it.

"Your finest red wine will do." Moriarty winked at him and the waiter disappeared. Soon enough, he was staring back at me again. His energy focused entirely on me. It felt as though I was being put on a stage with a spotlight constantly shining down on me. It wasn't very comfortable feeling.

"Have you missed me, John dear?"

I put on my pokerface and began to put on the act that I had last performed at the Dungeons.

"Oh, I'd be a fool not to." I smiled widely. "I was thrilled to be seeing you again."

The waiter returned and poured our wine, before taking our orders. I wondered why the previous waitress wasn't doing this, as It was the standard procedure usually in these places. I shook it off, trying my hardest to recognize who this man was. I requested the Spaghetti Bolagnese, as did Moriarty. How very Disney of us. I sipped at my wine.

"How's life at 221B?" Moriarty asked, seeking to the stir the pot. I wanted to tell him the truth, and anger him but I knew that it would definitely not be wise.

"Dull. Doing the comands of my high maintenance lov- *I coughed* um flatmate isn't an... enjoyable experience." I lied, mentally strangling myself for nearly saying lover. Apparently, he hadn't noticed.

"Ha, yes. Well, Sherlock isn't putting you to very good use. If you were at my command, I'd make sure all the tasks were particularly... _enjoyable, _in _every _sense of the word." He smirked, sipping at his own wine. His big dark eyes keeping their steady gaze on me all the while.

"Now that does sound fun." I imagined Sherlock being seated opposite me, which enabled the flirting to come much naturally.

"Well it doesn't have to be hypothetical." I bit my lower lip slowly and his mouth dropped open a little, he seemed to snap himself out of it. "I'm very, _very _turned on by you tonight, Doctor Watson." The way he ennuciated my name sent chills down my spine. It was scary. It was admittedly sexy, but still frightening. His hand moved forward to grip mine. I wanted to laugh but forced it back, taking special care in gripping his hand back with gentle force.

"Why are we eating then?" He looked a little confused. "...when we could be putting our mouths to _much better _use." I smirked and bit my lower lip again, enjoying this a little too much.

Moriarty gasped a little and went wide-eyed, his breathing was slightly uneven and ragged. His mouth was jerked up in a crooked smile. Oh yes, I could see the arousal in him. Moriarty was giving me the advantage.

The familiar waited returned then, disrupting our interlocked gaze and forcing Moriarty to abruptly release my hand and set it on his lap. The waiter and the previous waitress, who had suddenly returned, leaned down to place our food infront of us. The girl placed a bread basket within reach of both of us too, though I had notice that the angle she had placed it at was slightly in my favour. I saw a small white note of some kind tucked underneath it, barely noticeable and hidden in plain sight. I looked up at her, using my eyes to question her. Her own eyes looked slightly glazed over and big, as though she was alarmed and frightened. She seemed incredibly edgy, purposely avoiding being near Moriarty or even casting him a glance. She moved so that she avoided even a brush of her colleague. The two of them dispersed, the girl being much faster than the man.

I decided to keep my own thoughts hidden away in my head, keeping face. I tucked into my food, purposely making each digestive movement (especially the swallowing) more overtly-sexual than normal. Moriarty looked on at me, surprised again- his mouth dropped. He was merely playing with his food, taking the minutest of bites. He dropped the knife and fork loudly onto the plate, pushing out his chair and standing up.

"Um.. excuse me." he muttered, clearing his throat as he straightened his tie and glided towards the men's toilets.

Checking that I wasn't being watched, I reached forward to retrieve the small note that the waitress had left. A note was etched onto a small serviette, she had pressed so hard with her pen that it had almost ripped through the napkin. She also wrote in block capitals with no punctuation, messily, which meant either that the message was urgent or she didn't want to be identified- my guess is both. I realised then quickly, that I was observing a little like Sherlock but I soon swallowed my pride and went back to my business, reading what the note said.

"BE CAREFUL DR

HIS SECOND- SM IS RIGHT UNDER YOUR NOSE

HE'S UP TO SOMETHING IN THE MENS R"

I thought about it. Of course Moriarty wasn't completely alone and stranded here, that much was obvious. A man like him would never allow himself to be an exposed nerve in an operation, he always had a secret agenda. But who was his second? Of course that meant his second in charge, his deputy even... his friend. I then realised who the man in question was, it was the waiter that I recognized. Why else would the girl have acted so strangely in his presence? And why else would Moriarty have winked at him? He had taken special lengths to come serve us, dismissing the girl and giving her the idea that he was up to something. Perhaps, she knew who he was anyway but did not expect an operation of some kind to take place. Either way, I knew that my tranquil week was going to end very soon as there was far more going on. "The game was afoot" as Sherlock would say. I then realised that I needed to find out what was happening in the Men's Room, where Moriarty had disappeared to. I looked about me to see that his "second" who's initials were "SM" apparently, though I couldn't recall anyone I knew of that name, was near the entrance speaking to new customers. I took this opportunity to excute my plan of attack. I knew my acting skills now had to be outstanding and completely believable, I could not have any more word mishaps. I would compelte all of my action with the upmost precision, I would be like Sherlock. I feared that if I lost my concentration, Moriarty's unpredictable nature would get the better of him and something catastrophic could happen. No pressure, John.

I slid out of the chair, not making a sound and headed hurriedly towards to the Men's toilets. I opened the door with a little force, seeing Moriarty infront of the mirror, of which he saw me come in. I had clearly timed it well as Moriarty looked at me again with surprise but this time he looked happy, very happy. I quickly scanned the room, seeing that all of the cubicles were indeed empty. I then seized Moriarty quickly and playfully pushed him into one of the cubicles, careful not too push too hard so that he would fall. His guard was down.

As Moriarty stumbled backwards, I darted to the entrance and blocked it by moving a large mental bin that was placed underneath a hand dryer with tissues on a neighbouring wall. I did this so quickly and with such agility that again, I felt quite proud of myself. I was back to him in seconds and I looked at him hungrily. I bit my lower lip, which of course, he noticed. He moaned, leaning towards me. I laughed and grabbed his collar, pulling him further forward. His lips slammed against my own in a kiss, his lips were soft and plump. They tasted of peppermint- he had administered a piece of gum. Soon his hands were all over my body and I played along, occasionally groping his arse. (I know it wasn't completely necessary, but it added to the act and he did have a pretty admirable arse.) I pulled out of the tonguey, wet kiss and teased my fingers all over him. He had whispered my name a couple of times in hoarse, ragged breaths. Just snogging had appeared to already get him going, which lead to thoughts about things of a genuine sexual nature which I had to force away as I realised that my concentration was wavering. He took my thoughtful few moments as an advantage and pushed me out of the cubicle so that I fell backwards against the sinks. He grabbed me before I hurt myself and steadied me so that he was standing over me, while I was leant back. He looked down on me with those big brown eyes.

"So succulent." he moaned, kissing me again. While I had to admit, he was good at it, I still longed for Sherlock's lips instead. Sherlock had a perfect technique, he could be sweet and gentle, as well as seductive and tempting at the same time. I decided to reply as I found myself being too busy thinking. "So mouthwatering." I breathed. I was thinking about Sherlock, so I didn't have enough time to cringe at what I had just said to James Moriarty. Infact, if I hadn't been so pre-occupied I would probably have laughed at the whole situation.

"I think we should take this to a new high, don't you? Jawnnn." he said playfully, releasing me. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out two perfectly rolled smokes. He brought it upwards so that I could smell it. Automatically, I realised that it was Meth. My whole mind was drawn to the small roll in his hand. My eyes zoomed in on it and swirling red temptation seemed to consume me. I reached out to take it and inhaled it's scent. It was like another person was controlling me. My rational mind was floating up above, watching over the scene in schock, shouting at me to resist it and think of anything other than it, even thoughts of Sherlock were being pushed out as the craving and urge for it took over me.

I took it and he lit it up for me, I took a deep toke of it and it made me cough. It was a good hit. Moriarty didn't light his and I looked at him confused. He put away the other roll, back into his breast pocket and looked at me with concern his eyes and (though my now drug-riddled mind may have been wrong) disappointment.

"You didn't ask about the reservation name."

I looked at him quizically, my arm robotically lifting it back up to my lips so I could take another deep inhale of it. I couldn't fight it. He watched me, his mouth in a straight-line.

"Intoxique." He said simply, waiting for a reaction. I rose an eyebrow and he looked at me seriously. "It's French for addicted."

Suddenly someone burst through the door, knocking the bin over. They stepped towards us and then spoke, his deep hoarse voice booming.

"I told you, Doctor Watson." I looked at him confused, my vision a little distorted. "Addiction is a hard thing to beat alone."

I then realised why I knew him. Memories flooded back into my mind and swept over me. He was the man who attacked me. He spoke to me at the club. He was this "SM". But he was supposed to be dead?

**AN: Sorry I haven't been posting very often, I've had a bit of writer's block! As always, criticism and feedback is much appreciated! Thank-you :)**


	23. Friends

**Friends**

I found myself feeling as though I had been thrown into a dark abyss. His vision had disappeared but his other sense hadn't. I could feel myself standing up still, and I knew he was still in the men's room. I heard whispering, Moriarty and the attacker, but before I could focus on what they were saying, I was whisked away.

I was in a car, I could tell that much by the way they craned my neck and I had to lift my leg up to get in. I felt shoulders either side of me, so I assumed I was inbetween the attacker and Moriarty. One man, who was wearing a suit from what I could tell (so Moriarty) was very tense and alert- that much was obvious to me, I could feel it clear as day. It felt as though the sensory of my body had been heightened in some aspects. My sight was not a sense that had been improved, I kept seeing wavering images, like a television whos aerial was only picking up snips of programme. The drugs had given me that renewed sense of invincibility yet again, so I saw no reason in speaking boldy and confidently.

"So, who are you exactly?" I turned a little to my left, I assumed that was my attacker. There was no answer for a couple of minutes, but I could sense movement. It would probably be safe to assume that he was getting a signal from Moriarty to abolish such discretion. Apparently, he had received the all clear.

"My name is Sebastian Moran. Colonel... Sebastian Moran." he said, his voice emotionless and booming. "I'm second in command and I was going to shoot you dead at St Bart's hospital."

I felt myself wince slightly, the snippets of Sherlock's phonecall running like surround sound in my head. Then screenshots of Sherlock's crumpled, broken body on the cold pavement. I had to fight a scream of pain and terror, remembering that Sherlock was alive. My Sherlock was alive.

"Okay..." I said calmly, focusing on keeping my breathing regular and smooth. "Okay, so where are you taking me?" I spoke indignantly, annoyed with the ambiguity of this all. Especially when I was feeling so good because of the drugs.

"To see some old friends." he said, leering slightly. I couldn't see properly, but I could bet that the man was smirking. I was surprised that Moriarty had kept so quiet. Infact, had I not have Meth circulating and coursing through my body, I may have even been concerned with his silence. The car stopped and jolted abruptly. Sebastian opened the door and seemed to rush off quickly., slamming the door behind him.

The driver, who hadn't spoken a word the whole time we were in the car, left too. I head the sound of the car door locks and realised that I was trapped in the car. Thankfully, my sight seemed to snap back into sync and I scrambled to the left, searching for the unlock or some form of button that would enable my release. I had of course, forgotten that I was wearing a secure seatbelt that someonelse had put on for me. It wrenched me back before I had a chance to search and it was so harsh that it felt like hands. Infact, it was a pair of hands. I turned my head slowly and saw Moriarty sat next to me, his hands clenching my shoulders and his eyes burning with something... desire maybe? It was hard to tell. I didn't know what to do other than maintain my gaze on him. He released me and brushed off my shoulders, he did it quite heavy-handedly and then he unbuckled my seatbelt. He wasn't wearing one himself.

"You're addicted, John." He said, frowning. I bit my lip and looked down in shame. I couldn't argue.

"Yes I am." I breathed, rubbing my face with my hands and dropping them back to my legs. He wrenched my head back up.

"Not all addictions are administered through a needle or a cigerette." Then he smiled at me, a thrilling smile, a smile that I hadn't witnessed before. It made all of his other eccentric expressions look pitiful in comparison. He then pulled me to him, so our faces were centimetres apart. I could feel his cool breath on me.

"You're going to join me soon." he breathed, in a near whisper. He was looking at my lips. "I'll be the only one there for you."

I quirked an eyebrow and went to move my head back a little but before I knew it, his lips were on top of mine in a plump kiss, he tried parting my lips which I couldn't really stop. I wasn't in control of my body. I just let nature take its course and pressed back, not as enthusiastically as him, but with enough force to convince him that it wasn't a simple response. He pulled away and smiled sinisterly.

"Events are about to unfold, my _adorable _John." he spoke excitedly.

I suddenly felt a torrent of guilt wash through me about kissing him. I knew that if I hadn't, the consequences that might follow would prove to be dangerous and I couldn't risk the thought of something happening to Sherlock. I knew that he would use that as his method of revenge. The one man who made me feel alive and give me a reason to want to be alive, my Sherlock. I pushed back the guilt, thinking about the bigger picture.

I went to speak but then the front door opened and the driver climbed in. In a matter of seconds, the car was pulling away from wherever we were. I found myself wondering where Sebastian was... Afterall, he had been the one who answered when I asked our destination.

We had been driving for what must have been at least half an hour, the driver had cranked up the music and once again I was reduced to a drugged, musical fool. I was singing along and Moriarty looked delighted and if I wasn't mistaken... slightly aroused. The driver turned abruptly and I slammed my arm on the car door. Moriarty chuckled a little at me. I honestly couldn't feel any pain, so when I brought my arm back to my body, I traced it with my other hand and felt nothing but numbness. I assumed it was all parts of the drugs, keeping the bad feelings subliminal.

"We're here." the driver said.

Moriarty clapped his hands in glee. The driver opened the car door on my side and I stumbled out, being caught and steadied by Moriarty. He helped me stand upright and extended his arm for me to interlink my own with. I took it, knowing that i'd be face down on the floor otherwise. Plus, I saw no reason to quarrell with the gesture.

He lead us through a very golden, glamorous lobby and into a large hall. It seemed posh, very posh. The golden hues seemed remarkably vibrant, the saturation of it seemed magnified especially due to the effects of the drugs that were coursing through me. It was darker than it usually would have been I noticed, as black material was hung in neat waves on the ceiling, making the room dimmer. The chandeliers were still visible though but the material made them seem darker too.

Moriarty leapt around excitedly, looking at the place. He turned to face me, a yard or two infront. His knees bent a little and he extended his arms, his gestures big and bold. "Wha'dya think?" he beamed, eyes big and smile wide.

I looked around, before looking back at him. I nodded with approval "Very nice!" I slurred, feeling my own mouth quirk into a smile. I felt as though it seemed obvious that I was under the influence of something. My movements felt slightly lazy.

"I think it needs a little music." He clicked his fingers and let out a 'ha' of happiness. Like sorcery, in that instant music began to blare and surround us. A concoction of all kinds of music then played for a while. It ranged from Abba to Queen and both of us danced to all of them. I let the rhythm grip me, feeling completely out of control. The music seemed to seize me and move me in anyway it could. I saw Moriarty speaking to someone before I closed my eyes and let myself open myself up to the sound waves.

I opened my eyes again and saw Moriarty still chatting, casting a couple of smiles back at me. I laughed, continuing moving. I wiggled my hips more and let the music move me. I saw Sebastian enter the room and whisper something to Moriarty, who's smile stretched from ear to ear.

The precise, militial John Watson would have been alert at that moment but right then, I could not summon up the ability to gain stability or control. I was musics play thing and I would dance however it made me. I closed my eyes again, letting the rhythm grab me. "Do you love me?" by the Contours boomed through the room and I twisted and jived with accuracy and grace. I was oblivious to anything but the melodies and beats.

Then I heard footsteps and I opened my eyes again. Moriaty jived towards me, taking my arms and putting them on his shoulders as he brought our bodies together as though we really were from Dirty Dancing. It was incredibly fun but he then stopped, looking at me a little more seriously.

"Well I can tell you, that Daddy certainly loves you the best, Doctor Watson" he winked. "I have a gift for you, just to ensure that we end the night on.. the _highest _of highs."

He reached into his breast pocket and retrieved the other Meth roll, as well as a lighter. I didn't feel oblivious anymore, my body completely aware of the objects he was holding. The urge to take those items were of a larger magnitude than the grip of music. I took them slowly in my hands, eyeing them with sheer desire. I looked at Moriarty, seeking some kind of encouragement. He nodded vigorously, smiling. He stepped back as "Stayin' Alive" by the Bee Gees began playing. Sebastian accompanied him, both of them smiling wickedly.

I looked down at the items in my hand again, my brain fighting all thoughts of indulging.. but it was too late, my body's urges had already made their decision. I sparked up the lighter.

"Ah ah ah ah stayin' alive.. stayin' alive"

I held the roll over the top of the flame, watching it ignite.

"Ah ah ah ah stayin' alive.. stayin' alive"

I pressed it to my lips and in that moment, everything else went out of focus, I could hear muffled footsteps behind me, but I was busy inhaling the roll. It's power rolled to the back of my throat, making me cough and smile with intense happiness. I did it again, breathing it in deeply and savouring it as it made its way down my throat and into my lungs. I saw Moriarty smile with pure malice and I turned, taking another toke of it.

The music cut.

Stood watching me were Lestrade, Mycroft and Sherlock. They watched me as I breathed out the smoke and lowered the cigerette in complete shock and confusion.

"Say hello to our old friends then John." I heard Sebastian say, his voice rumbling.

I was transfixed by the expressions on each of their faces. It hit me then. It hit me like several tons of bricks. I had been so stupid. I had let these urges get the better of me. They shouldn't be here. I had put them in danger.

What have I done?


	24. A Gift

**A Gift**

The world seemed to go blank as I stood there, open-mouthed, wide-eyed. Everything was twisting and warping out of focus and I felt like a savage, a delinquent. I took a deep breath, closing my eyes and forcing them back open again. I hoped that things would change, in those seconds of shut eye, that I wouldn't be stood inbetween the two parties. But I was.

I looked down at the cigerette in my hands as though it were poison, angry and bewildered with myself. I dropped it, seeking some form of reassurance though I knew I was to receive none. I longed for Sherlock, for him to be coiled around me and speaking words of ease. I knew he wanted that too. Above his disapproval of my actions, his love didn't falter, I could tell that from his face. He looked angry yes, but he wasn't directing that at me. His eyes scorched with bitter hatred and they were directed at Moriarty. The man who had cleverly lead me a stray.

Silence seemed to fall about thick and heavy. It threaded itself with every atom of the air and it felt almost choking, like smoke. That was exactly how I felt. I felt consumed by the poison I had so willingly taken, sick at the thought of allowing myself to have been so foolish.

I reluctantly looked at my friends and my enemies, stood in what seemed like a dramatic Western showdown. Sherlock and Moriarty seemed to be interlocked in a stare. It was as though they were having some kind of silent battle, a battle to which only they could see or hear, as though it were on but one wavelength. Mycroft looked impatient, casting glances between Lestrade, Moriarty and Moran. Lestrade seemed to be searching for something, he looked as though he was on an entirely different frequency all together.

Moran seemed to sense this and smirked to himself. "I believe we haven't met, Inspector." he looked in Lestrade's direction. "My name is Sebastian Moran."

The name seemed to strike a bell in his head, naturally. As the Chief Inspector of Scotland Yard, James Moriarty's second in command was bound to have had a name.

"You evaded death, it would seem." Mycroft interjected, sounding bored but his ice cold eyes piercing the room all the same.

I felt confused at that point, as up until today I hadn't known who this man was at all. I had naturally, assumed that Moriarty still had a web of people, but I didn't believe it would do well to dwell on such notions. Especially since it would only bring me back to imaginations of Sherlock's activities while he was absent.

"Indeed. It would seem even your little brother could not finish me off for good." His voice practically hummed with pleasure, a smirk unwavering from his face. Sherlock broke his gaze with Moriarty to throw him an undoubtedly terrifying look. Moran seemed to recoil slightly, but the flicker of intimidation seemed to etch upon his face for only a few seconds. Moriarty nudged him almost unnoticeably with his arm, forcing him to go back to smirking.

Moriarty laughed a little, taking it upon himself to stroll around Moran and walk near me, lingering as he hovered around my neck, causing tension to roll through my body like a network of dominoes. He breathed slightly and I could feel his gaze upon me. I remained still, not giving him the satisfaction of having a visible effect, my mouth compressed into a straight line. As he did this, I cast a glance over to Sherlock who's eyes seemed to be positively glowing with a mixture of jealousy and anger at Moriarty's behaviour. Upon catching my eye, he seemed to ease a little though. Which ultimately, made me feel a little easier about the whole horrid business. At least out of all of this, the connection between Sherlock and I was not impared.

"Now that we're all gathered and we're all stayin' alive," he sung the last two words as the Bee Gees had, his eyes menacing and his lips twitching upwards in a discomforting smile. "we should get down to what this is all _really _about." His accent only seemed to emphasise his madness and he moved around the room so he circulated around each and every one of us, eventually returning back to Moran.

"You've all had your turn and _Daddy's had enough now_!" He looked at Moran and they laughed a little with each other, turning back to the trio with emotionless eyes.

"Even dying wouldn't shake you off, Sherlock. But fairs fair, you had a good time with him and now we want our turn."

Sherlock seemed to move forward, keeping calm and composed, which meant that he had already deduced what was about to happen.

"What is it that you want?" Mycroft asked, his voice authoritative.

"Obvious, isn't it?" Moriarty rolled his eyes. "Seeing as Sherlock didn't die, he has to pay the penalty... and I think it's time he gave me a gift."

"Which is what?" Lestrade asked, getting a little irritated with not knowing what was going on.

"_John." _He said in a near whisper, emphasising the word with only malice in him.


	25. You're not dead

**You're not dead**

Sherlock seemed to be positively seething with anger. His face was virtually unreadable, other than the unmistakeable curl of the lip which showed his rage towards the twisted man that stood across from him.

Quite like his brother, Mycroft looked annoyed, very annoyed. He was looking at Moriarty as though he was barely there, a pesky fly that could leave but remained to stay just to cause irritation. He seemed to almost pity him, as though Moriarty's madness was not an advantage, but something to condescend. But then again, to the all powerful Mycroft Holmes, I'm sure that in some respect or another, we all looked like inferior insects to him.

Greg still looked a tad confused, but he was mostly casting glances at both Moran and Moriarty. He looked over to me and caught my gaze and I'm sure I had a face that looked as confused as his own, if not more. He stepped over to me quietly, standing by my side and putting a hand on my shoulder. He squeezed it slightly. It was a gesture which made me feel a little reassured and relieved, though I knew that the situation was definitely not one for relief. Moriarty and Sherlock both seemed to snap their heads around to look at Lestrade's grip on my shoulder. The difference between their expressions was that Sherlock momentarily half-smiled, appreciating the comfort that our good friend was giving me. While, Moriarty looked like a once only-child after the arrival of a new baby that was receiving the attention, undeniably jealous.

He then looked at me, his angst and aggression directed at me, as though I shouldn't be allowing Greg to do that. As though he were my jealous boyfriend. As though I was his.

"I'm not yours." I said, with strength in my voice. Greg dropped his hand to the side in order to let me speak. "I will never be yours."

Sherlock smiled a little, which of course Moran and Moriarty caught. Positively growling, he began to speak. "You think they'll want you now? Now that you're an addict. A druggie... a cheat."

I furrowed my eyebrows at the last word, which he spat out. I was not cheat. I couldn't and wouldn't ever do that to Sherlock but then I remembered, I remembered kissing Moriarty and I remember the guilt that flooded me. Did that make me a cheat? I was playing the game. The web of deception that Moriarty had so craftily spun. "I'm no cheat." I said, my tone getting a little raised. I stepped forward a little. Everyone other than Moriarty seemed to tighten their posture, tensing up incase of violence.

"You've been on dates with me."

"One date, technically and that was tonight. A fake one."

"You groped my arse." He smiled menacingly.

"I imagined it wasn't yours."

"You kissed me."

"No, you kissed me."

His mouth drew in a line, flaring his nostrils a little. Sherlock still seemed angry and a little bit hurt, if I could interpret it right, but he wasn't angry with me. I prayed to God he wasn't angry with me.

Moran looked bored and rolled his eyes. "Can't we just get it over and done with?" He asked Moriarty, who sighed.

"Yes, yes. Alright. If you're not going to come with me yourself, I'll just have to force you." He mocked a sad face. He flicked his arm upwards and a couple of men similar to Moran came forth, running forward towards Greg and Mycroft, their fists at the ready. The music kicked back up, the Bee Gees playing yet again as the dim lighting made it harder to see.

I suddenly heard the sounds of grunting and punches being thrown about as both Mycroft and Greg were in fights with the guards, I stepped to go and help them but I was prevented by a smiling Moran who looked just as menacing as his boss. He threw a punch which sent my head reeling back. I looked back up at him, feeling rage boiling over. I caught a glance over Moran's shoulder and saw Moriarty and Sherlock talking low and face to face. Quickly I threw my fist to Moran's jaw, grabbing his blind jab and twisting it up and around his back as he turned. He kicked my shin and knocked the back of my leg, forcing it to buckle. I used my knee to buckle upwards to his bottom and near his prostate, which only made him angrier. Naturally. He twisted out of my grip and backhanded me across the cheek. I slapped both of my hands over his ears to discombobulate him as I need him in the diaphragm. He pushed my arms off of his head and pressed his grip onto my collar bone, pressing down on it. I let out a groan of anger, punching him hard in the face as I looked over at Moriarty and Sherlock again, who seemed to be shouting at each other. Everything was chaos. Everyone fighting and knocking it out of each other, throwing a quick glance back, I saw that Mycroft and Greg seemed to be handling themselves, finishing up with one pair of men only to be replaced with another. Moran was coming at me savagely, refusing to let me out of his sight. He grabbed at his side, at a piece of flesh twisting it with intense force. Moran cried out and I used my forehead to headbutt him. I released him and he staggered back. I looked over his shoulder again to see that Moriarty had a gun and there was a gap inbetween he and Sherlock now, who were talking calmly but with livid exteriors. Fear sparked through me quickly and I had to get over there. Over my dead body would something happen to Sherlock. Not again. The whole room seemed to be smothering with darkness and my whole vision seemed fixated on those two. The man pointing the gun and the man I loved. With one last hit, I punched upwards, knocking Moran's nose back and sending him hurtling to the floor with a thud.

Moriarty's finger seemed to be poised on the trigger and he appeared to have said something as he raised the gun upwards. I couldn't stop myself, it was instinct. In a few matter of seconds I catapolted myself forward, flinging myself inbetween them. I pushed Sherlock back so he landed on the floor before he could stop whatever was about to happen. Moriarty looked surprised and down at his gun as we slammed onto the floor, pressed together, the gun moved in his hand and he had already pulled the trigger as I slammed into him. The sound of a gunshot rung out through the hall and echoed, bouncing around.

I heard sounds of anger about the hall and a few more thuds. I heard footsteps racing towards me and sounds of cries. They were shouting out to me. Everything had seemed to go black but my mind was still racing, the senses of mine warping and changing. The drugs only making me more confused. I didn't know whether I had even been shot, whether I was dying or whether I was dead already. I felt no movement from underneath me other than the pouring of a sticky liquid which was wettening my shirt and the floor next to it. I felt weak and weary, sick even as though all of the chemicals of my body were screaming. I couldn't breathe. My mouth felt smothered and my lungs were inflamed from lack of oxygen. Was I leaving? Was this it?

Suddenly, I felt arms seizing me back and turning me round. The lower half of my shirt and suit dripping with blood. Somehow, I was being plunged back into light and knocked into perspective. I felt tears falling onto my face and arms around me, rocking me but no sound. I heard sounds of swearing and anger around me too. But then I opened my eyes. I opened my eyes and saw Sherlock looking down at me wide, as though he couldn't believe it, his face in agony and then washed with relief as well as sadness.

"J-John..you're not.. you're not dead." He said with a small smile, tears streaming.

I smiled as best I could, looking down at the blood and across to Moriarty, who was lying dead on the ground. I hadn't been shot. It wasn't me.

"Well now we have a firm grasp of the obvious." I joked and Sherlock snatched me up against him, hugging me tightly and burying his face in my neck as I felt my shoulder get wet with tears. I began to tear up too, smiling too as I knew that this was all over. He held me but pulled us apart so we could look at each other. He put one hand to my cheek and I moved closer.

"Don't you ever do that again. Don't you ever die on me, John. I love you so much."

I choked back the tears and rested my forehead on his, smiling at him through the tears.

"The same to you, Sherlock. Don't ever leave me. I love you too, more than anything."

We pressed our lips together, embracing each other.

It was then that I fully understood how he must've felt that day on the roof St Barts, with Moriarty. He would've died in order to protect me and keep me safe and I would never ask him to. But I would do exactly the same for him, a thousand times. But I knew that it was wrong, both of our actions were wrong.

We weren't meant to die like that. We were meant to grow old and live a life together.

**AN: Well there you have it! The final chapter! Thank-you to those who have sticked through to the end. I'm unsure of some of this chapter, so depending on the feedback I may tweak it a little bit. As always, feedback would be lovely! Thank-you for reading! :)**


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